Exchange of Power
by SlytherinPride2292
Summary: (Sequel to 'He Calls Me Pigeon') Sylvia and the Penguin get married in this third installment. Sylvia struggles to keep her family together while she and Oswald hope to receive Jim's blessing. Soon, Jim and Oswald will realize just what the other is willing to do for the ones they love. Rated M for violence, language, smut-the usual. Thank you for all the reviews, my lovelies!
1. Having A Drink

Chapter One: Having A Drink

Disclaimer: _So, here we go: I don't own any of_ Gotham _'s plots or its characters. This story is non-profit, please don't sue me: I don't have any money. My main OC, Sylvia Gordon, is my creation as well as a few minor OCs. I've added subplots of my own that will likely alter events set in_ Gotham _so be aware of that._

Author's Note: To my readers who've read the last two of my stories, I apologize for the delay **. In order to tell the story better, I have switched from first person to third person.**

* * *

James Gordon was only a year older than Sylvia. They were brother and sister; Jim had dark blonde hair and cerulean blue eyes; he took after their father. Sylvia inherited their mother's ginger hair and had eyes like Dad's. Both siblings were stubborn, strong-willed. What kept them from being the same person was their stance on crime: Jim was a cop. Sylvia, a criminal.

Their stance on crime was what led Jim and Sylvia down two different paths.

Sylvia's fiancé was the new King of Gotham. In all fairness, she knew he would have gotten to the top with or without her help; he was ambitious, clever, and he had been plotting to take Falcone's place the moment he met him. And Sylvia loved him for it all.

But not without struggling to keep the sibling bond between her and Jim.

She and Jim had been through a lot together as children, but nothing like they'd been through as adults. With Fish Mooney dead in the water, Maroni in the ground six feet under, and Don Carmine Falcone retired out of the business, it seemed that Oswald had finally done what he had set out to do—and while the love of her life was living on the highs of success, Jim was demoted. That being said, it was hard for Sylvia to celebrate Oswald's long-time coming fortune wholeheartedly while her brother's career was seemingly in the can.

Jim was grimly tossing back booze; he'd finished another shift as a traffic cop (or she assumed as he was wearing civilian clothes instead of his uniform). She'd guessed it was a shift gone bad since he was grumpier than usual.

"I guess you're living the high life now," Jim said despondently as he threw back his fifth drink. "Aren't you going to say 'I told you so'?"

"What kind of sister would I be if I kicked a man down while he was drowning in his troubles." Sylvia questioned ironically.

"You'd be my sister," He said.

"True, but you have my pity vote for now. I'll buy you another drink when you've finished that one."

They sat at a bar counter, her seat neighboring his. Jim made a habit of casually switching his attention between his next drink and side-glancing at his sister with a grudge. Jim wasn't happy—he had been telling Sylvia all this time that her bird boyfriend would not amount to anything and yet, here they were: Penguin was boss of the underworld now, and Sylvia was his bride-to-be. And Jim was a level above being a civilian—that was if Loeb didn't find one more reason to get rid of his badge already.

The corner of his mouth tugged upwards as he attempted to suppress a smile. Normally Sylvia's antiquated, cynical sense of humor was enough to cheer him up. Not today.

Sylvia sat backwards on her stool, her back leaned against the counter, elbows on the surface. The need to make her brother smile had quickly faded; sometimes, he refused to be happy, even if he did want to smile. He just wouldn't allow it.

"How does it work," Jim said nonchalantly, earning a curious look from her. "With Penguin being the 'king of Gotham'."

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "It's business as usual; he has the empire to rule, debts to collect."

"You're not going to be a part of that?" Jim questioned poignantly.

"I will be, but for now, I have things to take care of."

"Things like what?"

She smirked, saying, "Oswald gave me his nightclub."

Jim raised his eyebrows: "That's generous of him."

"It was a wedding present."

Jim cleared his throat, and placed his empty shot glass in front of her. It was a nonverbal request that he wanted that drink now, especially since they had inadvertently approached the white elephant in the room. Sylvia offered her own, placing the drink in front of him.

Sylvia exhaled a long deep breath, certain that Jim had not changed his mind since they had last spoke of the rhetoric. She turned to face him, crossing a knee over her leg and leaned towards Jim so that he had to acknowledge her.

She said softly, "I know you're in a mood, and it's hard for you to be happy, but would it kill you to at least _pretend_ you're happy for me?"

Jim tossed back the sixth drink of the evening, and placed it on the counter, turning in his seat to face her completely. Ever since he found out that she and Oswald were together (shortly after he falsely followed Don Falcone's orders to kill him), their sibling friendship had become something of a love-hate relationship.

Jim refused to accept that she was going to marry Oswald. While she attested the contrary, she did not blame him; she could see his reasoning for hating him—after all, Oswald stood for everything Jim was against.

"You know I only want what's best for you," Jim said hoarsely.

"I know," Sylvia reassured. "But 'what's best for me' and 'what you want for me' are two separate things. And we've been over this many times before." (She took his hands in hers, he allowed her to do so reluctantly.) "You're my brother, Jimmy; you're the only family I have left. I want you to be the one who gives me away."

Jim frowned, saying, "You want me to give you to him."

"I will be marrying him regardless...but it would be nice to have your blessing."

Jim made a scathing noise.

Sylvia frowned saying coldly, "You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

"I haven't."

"You won't sacrifice your damnable pride even for my wedding day?" She questioned incredulously.

"He's a gangster, Vee."

"He's the love of my life."

"That makes it worse."

"I could marry a lawyer or a cop and they could treat me like a piece of meat. I'm marrying Oswald because he loves me for _me_ ; just as I love Oswald for all that he is."

Her words had no way of changing Jim's opinion, clearly, as he remained stone-faced.

Sylvia rolled her eyes, dropping his hands from hers completely, and turned in her seat to stare angrily at the bar counter.

"Why him?" Jim asked tiredly. "You're beautiful, you're intelligent—Mom and Dad would want you to be with someone honorable."

"Oswald is an honorable man."

"He's a crook."

"So am I. And everything he has done, he's done for me. To better himself, to better our lives as a couple."

Jim rolled the empty shot glass in his hand; he said icily, "He tried to kill Falcone."

"And you arrested him; doing so, you nearly got all of us killed—thanks for that by the way. And if it wasn't for him, you, Harvey, Falcone—all of you would have been dead by Fish Mooney's hand." She reminded him hotly.

"None of that would have happened if it wasn't for Penguin starting the war," Jim argued. "And _you_ know that's true."

"I'll stipulate to that," Sylvia agreed. "But Falcone was losing control. Maroni would have run wild, and Gotham would have been thrown into chaos. It's because of Oswald that Gotham's Underworld is finally starting to settle down ever since the Waynes were killed. You have to admit that. At _least_ that."

Jim rolled his eyes in disgust. He was the unstoppable force, trying to prove to Sylvia many times over that she and Oswald were not meant to be together. Yet, the facts were there, were they not? How many times had Oswald been there for her when she needed him to be? And then how many times had Jim been there when Sylvia needed _him_? The odds weren't in her brother's favor. And this wasn't the first time they had argued about this very issue. It might have been the fiftieth time, give or take. And it always ended with a stalemate.

"What can you possibly see in someone like him, Vee," Jim muttered, rubbing his temples.

"Many things: he's sophisticated, handsome, well-dressed, and he has an intellect that borders on a level of psychotic genius," Sylvia said pointedly. She smirked, adding, "Not to mention, he's a monster in the sack."

"Ah, Vee!" Jim cringed. Sylvia laughed at his reaction.

"You asked, I answered."

"God, I wished I hadn't," Jim groaned.

"That's an interesting visual," said Harvey as he approached the bar counter on the opposite side. Sylvia lifted her eyes from her cringing brother to the bartender. Humored, Harvey asked, "Long time, no see. How have you been? Mug any of the lonely hobos in the Narrows?"

He punched her playfully on the arm, earning a sheepish smile from Sylvia while Jim scowled.

In her teen years, Sylvia mugged people left and right. And she didn't stop even after she turned of age; While not many could match the crime to the assailant, Harvey and Jim always knew she was somehow behind the two-bit crimes. Over the last couple of years, she had worked for Fish Mooney, Maroni and Falcone—or at least that had been what most had assumed. Really, she had only one boss; and she planned on marrying him.

Harvey smiled at her expectantly, waiting for a witty comeback. Sylvia crossed her arms on the wooden surface of the bar counter; the former cop mirrored her in stance.

"I've not had to roll anyone for their cash for some time now," Sylvia noted smartly.

"You robbed a bank a few days ago." Harvey reminded coolly.

Sylvia smirked, "You can't prove that."

Jim said callously, "Witnesses say they saw a redhead."

"As according to whom?"

"Rumors say," Jim said gruffly. "The other cops assume it was you."

"Hm," Sylvia hummed. "Hypothetically, if I did rob a bank, why would I do that?"

"Maybe it's not you," Harvey suggested. "You work for Penguin, right? Being 'Queen of Gotham' means ya have the jitters—Queenie like you doesn't need money."

Sylvia shrugged nonchalantly, like she was innocent. But Harvey knew better. Jim knew better.

"Maybe it's not the money. You miss it, though, don't you," Harvey teased. "The mugging, the robbery. The thrill of getting caught. You know what they say—'Once a skell, always a skell'."

"Harvey," Jim hissed. "She's still my sister, damn it."

"Nah," Sylvia mused, sharing a smile with Harvey. "He's right—about the thrill. Done that for the better part of my life, it's hard to stop."

Harvey said knowingly, "Penguin keeps tabs on your extracurricular activities, doesn't he?"

Sylvia rolled her eyes saying, "Yes."

"Working for your fiancé seems like a bittersweet deal. Keeps you on a leash, tells you what to do, tells you what _not_ to do (Like robbing banks, am I right?). But you like it, don't you—being told what to do." Harvey questioned knowingly.

"Within reason," Sylvia admitted.

Harvey drawled, "You know I give you a hard time because I love you."

"Have I ever mentioned that I hate you." Sylvia responded wittily.

"Hate has turned into love over time, Liv," he said cheekily, "and you know I have only love for you. I hear you got your own nightclub. Taking over Mooney's old place; Guess you'll be renaming it 'Sylvia's'?"

"No." Sylvia replied, standing to her feet. "I'll be calling it 'Lean on Vee'."

"'Lean on Vee'? I'm the only one that calls you 'Vee'," Jim pointed out.

"I know," Sylvia said passively, smiling at her brother; Jim glared at her in response, pouting like a kid.

"Catchy," Harvey complimented. "Will you be handing out invitations?" (He wiggled his eyebrows) "I hope I get one; I'd love to see one of your performances; I hear you sing like a lark."

Sylvia smiled modestly, "I do occasionally—I've let Tiffany take the reins; she finds the best entertainment. And invitation is all by mouth."

"She dances too," Jim said curtly, glaring at Sylvia. "You should see the perverts watching her—like she's a piece of meat."

"Well, Jim—I know you can't tell because you're her brother, but Sylvia here is a 13 on a scale of 1 to 10." Harvey stated pointedly (Jim rolled his eyes.)

"I plan the choreography," Sylvia corrected. "And it isn't as though I'm strip dancing on the catwalk." She smiled at Harvey, adding, "show girls don't know how to dance anymore. You have to show them how to do it, step by step."

"How does Penguin feel about you singing and dancing in front of all those skells?" Harvey asked interestedly, wiping the counter as though he wasn't all too curious but the quirk of his eyebrow said differently.

"The club makes a hell lot more money than when Fish was running things," said Sylvia coolly, tracing the rim of her glass. "I have guards at every door."

"Sounds like you're protected," Harvey noted cheekily. "But you didn't answer my question."

Sylvia met his eyes directly.

"Men look at me all the time, my entire life." Sylvia said seriously. "They look whether I am in sweats or in a dress. Where Oswald is concerned, he has nothing to worry about. He knows he has nothing to worry about. Besides, dance practice only happens when the club is closed."

Sylvia smirked: "My men are almost as protective of me as Oswald is. People who are afraid of Penguin know they can't touch me."

"I'm not afraid of Penguin," Harvey pointed out. "What if I wanted to try something?"

"Then you have **him** to worry about," said Sylvia, nodding her head in the direction of her brother. "If they're not afraid of Penguin, they're afraid of Jim. He punched Paul Britton in the mouth when he gave me a Valentine's Day card."

Harvey raised his eyebrows at Jim incredulously, but not surprised.

Jim said defensively, "He should have known better."

"James," Sylvia chuckled. "We were eight!"

Harvey had a nice laugh about that; Sylvia joined him.

Jim frowned, saying "Congratulations on all your success, Vee."

Sylvia chuckled, "You _can_ say 'fuck you'. It just makes you look like a sycophant trying to congratulate me with that false cheer of yours."

"Well, then: Fuck you," Jim grunted, throwing back another drink.

" _That's_ the brother I know and love," Sylvia chortled.

Harvey and Sylvia grinned broadly at each other. Harvey refilled Sylvia's glass of bourbon, three ice cubes upon her request. She thanked him, taking a sip. A moment later, her phone buzzed in the back pocket of her jeans; quickly, she pulled it out and answered the call while Jim and Harvey spoke quietly.

"Sylvia, where are you?"

It was Oswald, speaking in low tones. Sylvia felt butterflies fluttering in her stomach; his voice made her smile—many nights, he could make her wet using only that.

"Having a drink with my kin," She answered softly, "You?"

"I'm where _you_ should be," Oswald said calmly.

Sylvia held her drink in her hand, swirling the liquid in her cup, watching the ice melt, "I haven't forgotten—the meeting at four, right?"

"Correct," Oswald said, satisfied by her answer. Then he asked sincerely, "How is Jim Gordon?"

Sylvia glanced at Jim and Harvey speaking in low tones about police work. She answered quietly, "Solemn and grumpy. I've never seen him act so dull. He'll get over it though."

"He has no other choice, I imagine. Are you leaving soon?"

"About to, yes. I have a few errands to run before I come home."

"What are you doing after?" he asked.

"I'll be helping Tiffany unpack. I've already met with the landlord," She said conversationally. "I've paid the rest of this month's rent; Tiffany will be completely moved in by the end of the week, hoping to the move the rest tonight. I'll be happy when she moves out of that shitty half-way house."

"I'll send Gabe to help," Oswald offered.

"The more the merrier," Sylvia responded enthusiastically.

In the background, Victor Zsasz and Butch Gilzean spoke in less than dulcet tones. Obviously, there was a disagreement. Sylvia's suspicions were confirmed when she heard Oswald's familiar exasperated sigh.

She lowered her voice to a low seductive pitch, drawing him back to her: "Ozzie."

Oswald's response was soft; however, faint was the hint of annoyance, "Yes?"

"What are you wearing?" She whispered humorously.

Her sexual innuendo made him chuckle, but his response was serious: "Don't be late to the meeting, Sylvia."

"I won't be. Love you!"

"And I, you." Oswald responded. Just as Sylvia was hanging up, he yelled, "Victor! Do _not_ shoot Butch—we're going to handle this like adults!"

He hung up. Sylvia placed her phone in the back pocket of her jeans. Harvey and Jim were eyeing her expectantly; they had listened in on the last portion of the conversation.

"Who's Tiffany?" Harvey asked curiously.

"A friend of mine," said Sylvia. "She's taking my apartment since I'm moving into the Falcone Mansion."

"What's the meeting at four about?" Jim questioned.

"Business," She quipped, getting to her feet. "I'll see you all later."

She placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, patted both men on the shoulder, and then headed out the door.


	2. Jim Asks For A Favor

Chapter Two: Jim Asks For A Favor

* * *

Tiffany and Sylvia had history. Typical Gotham history, at that. Long story short: Tiffany's fiancé, Burke Drifas, had stepped up to the plate to contest Penguin. Sylvia found out, tortured him with every intention of keeping him alive until she found out that Burke was raping and beating his own fiancée every single night: His fiancée, Tiffany Rubberdale. She sentenced him to death. He was thrown off the pier where he drowned in his own blood and tears, sinking to the bottom of Gotham Lake. Tiffany was appreciative (after the shock wore off) and since then, she was grateful for Sylvia's intervention.

This unconventional meeting had unexpectedly ended up becoming a friendship in which Tiffany started working for Sylvia at the former club named _Oswald's_ as a bartender and once Sylvia was given the club, Tiffany had become her second-in-command. For the longest time, Tiffany was living in a halfway house to hide from Drifas' bitter associates as they held her responsible for his death (only because they didn't know that it was Sylvia who orchestrated his demise). Now that Penguin was King of Gotham, the Drifas fans dove underground and Tiffany was free to go where she wanted without fear of reprisal.

Due to their history and friendship, Sylvia offered her the apartment; Tiffany took it happily.

She and Sylvia toasted the occasion with aged wine. The last of Tiffany's furniture was placed gingerly on the ground by one of Oswald's most loyal soldiers, Gabe, who joined the girls in the kitchen for a drink.

They shared some laughs, good times; Sylvia exchanged her jeans for a black, knee-length cocktail dress; and when four o'clock approached, Gabe and Sylvia left. She rode in the passenger seat while he drove.

"How's your day been so far?" Gabe asked conversationally—polite as always.

"Decent," Sylvia answered. "Yours?"

"Same, I guess," Gabe said, shrugging.

It was silent in the car, but not one of those uncomfortable silences that one just desperately wanted to break. Rain tapped the windshield rhythmically, and the car engine made a decent hum.

"Do you have any hobbies, Gabriel?" Sylvia asked curiously; she crossed her bare ankles on the floor board, reclining back in the seat.

Gabe stopped at the light, his fingers drummed the steering wheel in no particular beat. The usual droopiness of his face became animated when she asked about his personal interests.

"I like reading the newspaper," Gabe commented, glancing upward through the windshield.

"Is that it?"

"Mostly," said Gabe. "Normally, I just work."

"Do you like your job?"

"Yeah, I guess so," he said, glancing at her. "Do you?"

Sylvia smiled coyly: "Do I what?"

"Do you like your job?" asked Gabe politely.

"It's not a job if you like what you do," Sylvia told him easily. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I guess so."

"You do a lot of guesswork," She teased.

Gabe allowed himself a small smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a secret that Gabe enjoyed her company. He was an underling; She was his boss' fiancée. But Sylvia rarely hardened the lines; she was a casual woman, and liked things to stay informal for the most part.

"Do you have any family?" Sylvia asked.

"None yet."

"Do you want one?"

Gabe said lightly, "Not really."

"Too much trouble?"

"Too expensive," Gabe admitted, grinning at her modestly. "Marriage, kids—I don't think I'm cut out for that type of commitment. Gotham ain't a good place for it, anyway, you know."

"Only if you get complacent," Sylvia said softly; she glanced out the window. "Gotham isn't perfect. But it has its moments."

"Sun never shines here," Gabe noted, glancing up at the sky.

"Doesn't shine in Alaska, but people still raise families there," Sylvia pointed out.

"Point taken, Miss G."

She grinned broadly at him as the traffic started flowing once more. Motorists, bicyclists, pedestrians alike seemed sluggishly rolling down the streets. The heat was rising in the car and wordlessly, Gabe rolled down the windows. A soft, cool breeze kissed Sylvia's face; her ginger locks moved with the wind.

Gabe smelled her perfume, clearly, and he complimented it.

"Smells like it might rain," Gabe muttered, once more looking up at the sky. It certainly looked like it—the clouds had become full and gray; the sun barely peeked from behind them, shyly dodging from view.

"Petrichor," Sylvia said lightly.

Gabe furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

"It's the word that describes the smell of rain," She informed. "The smell is created by an oil that is released by certain plants. When it rains, the oil is released into the air. That's why people say they can 'smell rain'."

Gabe continued driving and said under his breath, "Smart girl…"

More silence followed. Sylvia shifted in her seat, smoothing down her dress.

Sylvia never used to be a dress/skirt person. She had avoided them all of her teenage years, and most of her adult life. However, she liked how the people in the room responded to her presence when she'd walk into a room, showing off her legs. The soft freckles contrasted beautifully on her pale complexion; the heels made her calves pop, and the dress itself showed off her more feminine assets.

Oswald's confession that he liked seeing her wear dresses, skirts, and heels had become her motivation to retrieve any reaction from him. When he saw her, his eyes would light up in the slightest fraction of a second, a quirk of a small, sly smile on those thin lips—and the proud expression always hid what truly simmered beneath the surface: His lust, his desire...his deepest love for the rose among the weeds, the diamond among pennies.

Gabe escorted Sylvia through the mansion; Nameless thugs greeted her politely; those who knew Sylvia smiled and greeted her casually.

The 4pm meeting was being held in the dining hall, already taking place. Inside was a table that stretched from one side of the room to the other, allowing many guests to sit around it. Oswald sat in the seat that Falcone used to occupy, in front of the roaring fireplace. In front of him were Butch Gilzean, Victor Zsasz, and the late Italian mob's hitman, Tommy Bones. Sylvia's clicking heels on the linoleum alerted everyone in the room to her presence; when they saw her, they stood, including Oswald, being the gentleman that he was.

Gabe left shortly after she'd entered the room and she sat beside Oswald on his left-hand side, everyone following suit. He smiled happily at her.

"You look beautiful, as always," Oswald noted, his eyes taking in her flattering attire. He placed his hand on the table, palm facing up; she took it and he squeezed gently.

Their hands remained on the surface of the table. Butch, Tommy Bones and Victor noticed this and exchanged glances but Oswald and Sylvia remained unaffected. Oswald's attention was on her for the moment.

He asked sincerely, "How was the move?"

"Easy enough," Sylvia answered, leaning back in her chair. "Some of Tiffany's furniture didn't make it out of her old house. The moving companies say they're going to pay for the damages—'money back guarantee', per the contract; she doesn't seem to mind that her shit is all scratched, but I'm going tomorrow to make sure it gets taken care of."

As she spoke, Victor Zsasz remained nonchalant. While Butch appeared vexed by Sylvia's presence, the professional hitman had little to no reaction. He and Sylvia had a few run-ins long before this time, and they'd reached something of a tolerance for one another, even if they disagreed on a few things such as their preferences by which a person should be killed: Victor liked guns; Sylvia loved knives.

Butch eyed Sylvia from across the table, looking like he might have something to say. Sylvia noticed this.

"Hi, Butchy," she said, smirking. "How are you doing?"

"So-so," Butch answered coolly.

Victor stood behind him, hands on either side of the chair. Butch held a notebook in front of him, and he flipped the page. The meeting had already started, but Sylvia had a tendency of running fashionably late, particularly when she was caught up with her brother. Either way, her tardiness wasn't acknowledged by Oswald.

"Gregor Miles," Butch continued calmly, reading the name off the notebook page. "He's three-thousand dollars behind in his payments, been trying to pay it back for the past year, but so far, no attempts have been made."

Victor added amusedly, "His excuse is that he has bills to pay."

Butch glanced up at Victor: "We all have bills to pay."

Victor informed Oswald in the same amused tone, "Don Falcone gave him three-thousand dollars to keep the loan sharks from killing him. Gregor said he could pay him back, but…"

"And what does he say now?" Oswald questioned coolly.

No one tried to answer on the man's behalf. Sylvia rested her chin in her other hand, looking around the room with little enthusiasm.

"There's your answer, babe," She said sardonically, gesticulating to the quiet audience.

Oswald smiled sarcastically at her comment, but she wasn't wrong. Gregor wasn't the only one who thought they didn't owe the Penguin anything now that Falcone was out of the picture. What debt they owed Falcone, they now were in debt to Penguin. It was this last bit that many were hard of hearing.

"Word around town is," Butch said slowly, looking up from the notebook, "Gregor is doing more than a few odd jobs. He has his own shop down in the Narrows."

"What is he selling?" Tommy Bones asked curiously.

"Nothing good," said Butch, clearly disgusted.

Victor cleared his throat intentionally; everyone in the room looked up at him indicatively.

"Rumors are that he's gone in the business of human trafficking. Girls, in particular," Victor stated coolly. The look of disgust seated in his facial expressions as well.

Sylvia felt her face become suddenly hot. Her blood boiled beneath her skin, her jaw tightened. Oswald looked down to see that her hand tightly held his.

"Well, it's a good marketing trade," Tommy Bones commented pointedly. "People pay top dollar for—"

Sylvia was halfway out of her seat at the suggestion before she felt Oswald's hand leave her own and settle on her thigh. He gave her a meaningful look; Sylvia gritted her teeth, settling back into her seat.

"We will not be participating in human trafficking." Oswald stated coldly. "It's an abhorrent trade."

Tommy Bones muttered a quick apology while Victor was grinning ear-to-ear. Oswald looked at Butch pointedly and the latter continued to go down the list of all the people who had a debt to be collected.

Leon Mortzen: Fifty grand.

Digger Biden: ten grand and some change.

Kennedy Dawn: Thirty-grand, and apparently, he owed Falcone a cattle ranch (whatever that was about).

Dolores Reese: She owed Falcone a favor.

Tommy Bones chuckled while stroking his beard, "Do favors roll over from one person to the other?"

Butch said humorously, "I don't think it works that way. I mean, Falcone may not be in the business, but he's still alive. He could ask for that favor later on down the road."

"What's the nature of the favor?" Tommy questioned, leaning slightly to the right. "Is it like 'I-got-you-a-date-so-now-you-gotta-get-me-one' kind of favor or is it 'you-got-rid-of-my-ex-so-let-me-buy-you-a-drink' kind of favor?"

Victor said seriously, "It's 'You-killed-my-boss-so-now-I-owe-you-my-life', that kind of favor."

Victor's tone was edgy; obviously, the hitman didn't have much of a tolerance for the bigger fella. Not that Sylvia could blame him; she still wanted to tear out his eyeballs after the human trafficking comment.

Butch continued cautiously as he glanced between Victor and Tommy Bones: "We're looking at a lot of debt to collect, Boss."

"I say we just kidnap all of them," Sylvia mused halfheartedly, "and put them all in a room together. We let them outbid each other; the highest bidder gets to live. The others die: simple."

Butch raised his eyebrows at the idea; Tommy Bones shifted in his chair as far away as possible from her. Oswald smiled amusedly at Sylvia's approach before looking to Victor for his opinion.

"Honestly, Chief," said Victor, smiling widely, "I like her idea. A little torture, a little threatening, these people value their cars and houses as high as fifty-grand. They'd probably pay up to live."

"And if they don't," sighed Sylvia darkly, "We'll just take everything to bank, gather what we can on collateral, and give whatever is left of the bodies to the black market. I hear they're paying top dollar for kidneys and hearts."

Tommy stared at Sylvia, and scooted his chair a little further from her. Sylvia smirked at his reaction.

"Ambitious thinking," Oswald commented, smirking at her. "But a little too ambitious, I think. We are looking to collect, not burn bridges."

"Hmmm," Sylvia sighed. "You're probably right, problem-solver that you are."

"And you're a wrecking ball," tommy bones muttered.

"Damn straight—I could kill you before you even knew what was happening," Sylvia said dangerously.

"Yeah right."

"Try me," Sylvia threatened.

Tommy scoffed but Victor said pointedly, "Careful, man. She can kill you regardless—if she wants you to feel it, you'll feel every second."

"What—you and her go on a killing contract together or something?" Tommy said skeptically.

Simultaneously, Victor and Sylvia answered: "Yes."

Tommy gave both of them a nervous glance each before he silenced.

"What about Ogden Barker?" Butch questioned.

"Who the fuck is that?" Sylvia asked incredulously.

"In for seventy grand, plus two months' vig, 250 and change," Butch reported. "Says he owes Falcone; Falcone is gone—so his debt is 'forfeit'."

"Well, we can't have him saying that," Oswald said pointedly. "What if everyone started saying that? There would be anarchy."

The door to the room opened and one of the homely servants dressed in a tuxedo strolled on in. He glanced at Sylvia politely before he stood readily at Oswald's side. The latter took notice.

"What is it?" Oswald questioned.

The servant leaned into him and whispered, "Mr. Gordon is here to see you."

Oswald smiled and said happily, "Splendid."

Sylvia and the others looked up and over at the entrance where Jim Gordon stepped in as Oswald stood to his feet and greeted him halfway. They shook hands.

"Jim, my dear old friend," Oswald said, grinning.

Jim didn't play around as he said seriously, "We need to talk."

They exchanged meaningful glances before Jim tilted his head ever so slightly to the side to pardon the remaining guests. Oswald turned to look at everyone else, and ordered them to leave. While Victor, Tommy Bones, and Butch left the room, Sylvia remained sitting, looking at Jim.

"You're not in uniform," Sylvia noted coolly.

"You're in a dress," Jim returned with equal nonchalance.

Sylvia smirked at him saying, "Loeb kicked you out for good, didn't he? That's why you were extra grumpy today."

Jim sat opposite of her, ignoring her comment (regardless of its accuracy). Oswald observed their interaction, as always with an air of amusement. Often times, the two Gordons mirrored each other—both had nasty tempers, and each of them could retort in the same brusque mannerism. If not for the year's difference, Sylvia and Jim could have been twins.

Oswald sat on his throne; Jim straightened in his seat, and fixed his tie uncomfortably. Meanwhile, Sylvia rested her face in one of her hands, relaxed.

As always, Jim was right to the point.

"I need a favor," he said briskly, looking at Oswald. "I figure you owe me one."

Oswald chuckled, "I do? I'm always happy to help you, Jim, but I don't recall—"

He interrupted him: "The hospital? I saved you from Maroni's men."

Oswald said pointedly, "But I was only there because you arrested me…"

"For attempted murder," Jim finished coolly. With a hint of disdain, he added, "Remind me again why I let you go."

"Enlightened friendship," Oswald answered cynically. "I'd call us even, but let's not quibble. I'm so happy you came to me for help, Jim." He smiled: "The answer is 'yes'. Your wish is granted."

"But you don't know what it is yet." Jim said cautiously.

Oswald glanced at Sylvia knowingly, then back at Jim, saying, "You want Loeb fired and old job back, no?"

Jim looked taken aback by the fact, but agreed that he was right.

"For a good friend like you," said Oswald smoothly, "It can be done. If you're sure that's what you want."

"I'm sure."

"May I ask why? Police work in Gotham is such a thankless job."

"Good pension," Jim lied.

"What does Lee think?" Oswald questioned.

Jim said flatly, "Who…"

Sylvia smirked when Oswald looked at Jim like the latter should know better. Jim never gave the King of Gotham enough credit.

"Are you going to help me or not?" Jim demanded.

"Relax," Oswald said, "I already said I'd help."

Jim glanced at him and Sylvia before he stood up and started walking away. Oswald looked at Sylvia, saying, "He is so brusque, isn't he?"

Then quite suddenly, Oswald slammed his hand on the table saying quickly, "While I think on it, perhaps you could do a favor for me in return."

Jim slowly turned on his heel, and appeared as though he immediately regretted his decision to come to Oswald for help. It wouldn't have been the first time, and Sylvia could recognize that reluctant expression from three-thousand miles away. Expectantly, Jim stood still as Oswald stood, and approached him.

"I know how you hate to owe favors. I am having a small business dispute with a friend of mine, Ogden Barker," he said calmly. "You have a persuasive personality. Perhaps you could talk to him."

Jim looked at Sylvia, who had no noticeable reaction to the request. Jim approached Oswald saying quietly, "You want me to collect a debt for you?"

"I want you to prove that our friendship is a real one," Oswald countered, "based on trust and equity."

"That's fair," Jim noted. Then after a moment: "No. Sorry. I can't help you. Congratulations on all of your success."

Oswald was obviously disappointed, but as Jim walked away, he called after him: "Don't say 'no' now, Jim. Sleep on it!"


	3. A Lesson in Self-Control

Chapter Three: A Lesson in Self-Control

Author's Note: Special shout-out and thank you to _finish-her_ for the first review!

* * *

The door closed as Jim starkly left the room.

Oswald glanced at Sylvia, his expressive face showing his malcontent.

"Want me to talk to him?" Sylvia offered. "Can't say it will do much good. He wasn't exactly in the best mood earlier today—passive-aggressive at best."

"Don't worry about him," Oswald said, reclaiming his throne. "He'll change his mind."

"You're not wrong," Sylvia exhaled softly.

She folded her hands atop the other; the middle finger of her right fiddled with the diamond-crested engagement band on the ring finger of her left hand. After a beat, she asked as an afterthought: "So, assuming you're going to let my brother have Ogden Barker, what would you like to do about the other ankle-biters that owe you money?"

"We'll have Victor and Butch talk to them first," Oswald said softly, not looking at her.

"And if they don't like what they have to say?" Sylvia questioned knowingly. "You know what _I_ want to do…to them, at least."

"I do, and normally, I wouldn't stop you," Oswald said smoothly. "But these days, I have to question your self-control."

Sylvia responded, "What is there to question? I have it under control."

"Do you?" Oswald countered. "Your little escapade a few days ago at the bank says differently. Your stunt had the Drays in an outrage."

"I didn't know it was _their_ money," Sylvia said defensively, leaning back in her seat. "There's not a sign outside that says 'untouchable money, none shall pass'; and just so you know, I didn't even take that much…just a few hundreds."

"You injured their security staff," Oswald added.

"The security guards are a joke—a bunch of fat lards with guns…they couldn't defend a doughnut shop even if their Christmas bonuses depended on it."

"One of them is in the hospital."

"He tried to taser me," Sylvia pouted, crossing her arms. "And he'll be fine in a week—maybe sooner. I didn't hurt him near as much as I wanted to, now if that's not self-control, I don't know what is."

Oswald rested his face in his hand, looking at her pointedly.

"I didn't authorize you to hit any banks, Sylvia."

"I was bored."

"You've yet to give me a good excuse."

"It's a fucking _bank_ ," Sylvia said aggrievedly. "There are **many** like it. Why are you laying into me right now?"

"It belongs to one of the families," Oswald stated. "I made a deal with the owners that it would not happen again—unless they cross me."

"Would it be insubordination if I said I was acting on your behalf?" Sylvia questioned lightly.

"You're impulsive—"

"—I prefer 'spontaneous'," Sylvia interrupted, smirking at him.

"—Reckless—"

"Not all of us are builders and problem solvers. _You_ know that I am not." Sylvia said flippantly.

Oswald's eyes narrowed, and his lips were pressed tightly together. Sylvia leaned back in her chair, raising her head in defiance. He was getting pissed off, and she could tell it just by the way he was looking at her. He leaned forward, fingers interlaced together.

"If you continue to uproot establishments, Pigeon, this empire will not hold," Oswald cautioned.

"I robbed _one_ fucking bank," Sylvia hissed.

"Regardless, would you mind running it by me the next time you decide to uproot a building's charming existence?" Oswald questioned sternly.

"Fine," she mumbled. "I'll run it by you next time, okay?"

"Thank you," said Oswald softly.

Sylvia cleared her throat—getting past the quibble—and said, "Let's say neither Victor nor Butch can get through to these people. _And_ they aren't intimidated by anyone else you send their way…"

Oswald gazed at Sylvia, attempting his hardest not to allow himself to smile at the earnest puppy dog eyes she was giving him.

Oddly enough, she reminded him of Fish Mooney—she owned the club, and possessed the same commanding authority…the only thing she was missing, Oswald realized, was that snake-like charm.

Maroni had been right about Sylvia and Fish's roles being identical. In some ways, Sylvia _was_ **Oswald's** Fish Mooney.

"If they don't submit, you may do what you do best." Oswald said finally.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

Sylvia slowly stood on the chair, climbed onto the table and crawled towards him…her movements were delicate, but calculating. The contours of her dress held tightly and firmly to her curves; the low dip of her neckline fell and gave him a beautiful sight of the soft, creamy flesh that were her perky breasts.

Seeing her on the table, crawling towards him like a seductress, Oswald was taken back by it at first but his lips quirked into a sly little smile when she sat her butt on the table's edge, dangling her legs. She slackened her feet so her black heels fell with a clatter on the wooden floor.

Oswald sat forward to the edge of his seat, and hiked the hem of her dress up so it pooled around her waist, bearing visibility of the white lace panties she wore underneath.

"I can make it a whole spectacle," Sylvia breathed. "I have it all planned out. I could record it for you, if you like."

As she spoke, Oswald glided his hands from her knees and up her thighs, his attention divided; his eyes followed his own fingers, admiring how the inside of her thighs quivered slightly at his inviting touch. The other half of his attention reconciled with the sweet, devilish purr that was Sylvia's voice.

"One small room...tight-knit," she said, "a few chairs, some tape and rope—no problem. I'll have them all begging to pay what they owe you...maybe a little more." (A dark chuckle escaped her lips— _How like Miss Mooney, indeed,_ thought Oswald.) "Skip the useless interrogation, Ozzie. It's such a waste of time..." Sylvia grazed the back of her hand down the side of his face, two fingers slid under his chin to tilt his head upwards so that his eyes met hers.

She said quietly, "Let your Pigeon go to work."

It was a pet name he had made up for her, and so frequently when he uttered it, she would light up like a firework. Hearing Sylvia use her own moniker in such a way sparked a fire in his belly; and clearly, the desire he felt was mutual.

Just the thought of murder had made Sylvia's breath shallow. Her eyes reflected brightly in the orange light emitting from the fireplace.

Oswald had the ultimate weapon perched on the table before him, such a beautiful weapon she was. How soft her skin felt as he circled his thumbs into the muscle of her inner thighs; how gently she bit her bottom lip when he stood, his height towering over her sitting frame.

James Gordon didn't know just how sadistic his little sister was—he'd likely succumb to a heart attack if he found out. Only _Oswald_ knew the **real** Sylvia Gordon; the knowledge of this shot a pleasurable tingle down his spine.

"I can even take care of Ogden Barker for you if you want," she offered softly. "You know I have a 'persuasive personality' too."

"I couldn't deny that even if I wanted to," Oswald reassured as she wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him closer so that he stood between her legs.

The minx bent her knees, her bare feet rubbed down the sides of his pants; the little smile she flashed made Oswald shiver. Her red hair cascaded in waves down her back and shoulders, and she was biting her bottom lip—Sylvia was _taunting_ him. And goddamn, was she good at it!

Oswald leaned into her, holding the fragile bone of her jaw as he kissed her softly. Gentle, he was, at first. Sylvia responded hungrily, pressing her tongue against the line where his lips met, demanding passion. He didn't return it so ferociously.

"You have an _unnecessary_ amount of self-restraint, Mr. Penguin," Sylvia said with an undertone of sexual frustration.

"And _you_ lack a great deal of it," Oswald remarked, smirking at her knowingly. "But we have been over this before."

" **Ooh** ," Sylvia taunted.

She hooked her ankles behind his waist, dug her heels into the small of his back, pulling him closer. Sylvia wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him against her—chest to chest. In order to keep his balance, Oswald braced his hands on the surface of the table, letting out a small 'mm' when she shoved her mouth against his.

He moved Sylvia on her back, and she chuckled darkly when she heard him unbuckle and unzip his pants. Eager to feel any part of him, Sylvia reached a hand down between them, and licked her lips when her fingers came into contact with his hard-on. So full, so thick…so ready.

"So much for restraint," Sylvia teased.

"You have **no** room to talk," Oswald chastised but the scolding wasn't lost on her.

She was undeniably wet; her panties were soaked before they even started this foreplay. Thinking of murder—torturing these people who had claimed no loyalty to the true King of Gotham—had her going; a bloodhound, his own personal pet he could order to attack just about anyone—And she would do so with little hesitation!

Sylvia inhaled sharply when Oswald slipped his hand into her underwear, cupping her sex; she was eagerly awaiting his touch. The mischievous smile that graced his lips was the result of feeling the tight walls of her pussy immediately clench around his two fingers when he slid them inside of her.

Sylvia unbuttoned his jacket and vest, muttering through gritted teeth, "Goddamn _buttons_ …" before she finally was able to push the fabric off his shoulders. Oswald straightened, shrugging the clothes off onto the floor, careless. The subject of his attentions and affection was the woman whose eyes were only for him, and him alone.

He rejoined her at the table, slipping between her legs once more. This time, Oswald touched her just outside the lacy material of her panties, wet with her desire and need. When she attempted to sit up, to gather him back in her clutches, Oswald pushed her down, his fingers spread between the valley of her breasts.

"Let me up!" Sylvia pouted. "I want to touch you!"

"Patience, Pet," Oswald commanded.

"You're such a hypocrite," Sylvia teased, smirking at him. "You want this **just** as badly as I do!"

Oswald grinned shamelessly.

After all, she called him on it. He _was_ being hypocritical; he could feel his heart hammering away at his chest, and it took every ounce of will power _not_ to take Sylvia for himself. But he knew a beautiful redheaded creature like Sylvia deserved to be teased and played with, to the point she was left begging; only when she was desperately pleading for his cock would Oswald give her what they both longed for.

It warranted patience and incredible amount of self-discipline on his part not to give Sylvia what she demanded initially (god only knew just how demanding she could be) but it was always worth the wait.

She wiggled her hips in an effort to tempt him.

"Be still."

"But Pengy…!" She pouted.

Oswald rolled his eyes at her, but did his best to hold back a smile that threatened to override his command. The little pet name…it was _her_ pet name. He would allow no one else to call him that. But Sylvia was the unspoken exception.

"Will you _please_ just—" Sylvia protested.

"Hush," Oswald ordered sternly. "Now do what I say, Pet."

Sylvia retracted whatever comeback she had ready, pressing her lips tightly together.

She'd always said it: 'You're my lover first, and my boss second'. The lover, he was, but it was nice to incorporate the latter during moments when she was feeling most demanding. Sylvia was his fiancée—his beautiful, blushing bride-to-be—but the fact still remained: Sylvia still _worked_ for him. In moments like this, Oswald used his title as her employer to his advantage (and she never once complained—in fact, she _preferred_ to be, not his business partner, but his employee).

Satisfied by her nonverbal submission, Oswald wordlessly lifted the hem of her dress above her stomach, exposing the naked flesh of her belly, and creamy thighs. Her chest, cheeks, and neck were all the same color: flushed pink. So perfect, yet not so flawless—small faded scars she'd acquired from scrapes and firefights in the past, and light freckles dusted her skin.

Oswald grazed his fingertips along the outer edges of her panty lines, biting his own lip when she let out a shaky, needy keen.

Her sounds could spur him into a frenzy, something maddening. She could sound like an innocent school girl, or a devout succubus.

And what she could do with that mouth alone…

" _Baby_ , please…"

Oswald ignored her. He hooked his thumbs underneath the waistband of her panties and slid them down her legs; she instinctively lifted them, and the lacy barrier slipped off her ankles. He pocketed them, grinning down at her, meeting her eyes.

"Imagine what this will feel like on the night we become husband and wife," Oswald noted breathlessly. "I'll enjoy spending the rest of my life making you beg."

He slid three fingers up between the glistening folds of her sex; the muscles of her thighs quivered involuntarily. She lifted her hands to touch any part of him.

"Don't move," Oswald whispered.

She growled, lowering her hands back to the table. Sylvia inhaled sharply as he rubbed her clit, rotating the pads of his fingers around the swollen bundle of nerves.

"If you're trying to teach me a lesson," Sylvia murmured shakily. "…in self-restraint, I…I think I've grasped your meaning…"

"I'm sure you have," Oswald patronized, "but there is no harm in re-educating you."

He admired how her fingers which held the edge of the table gripped until her knuckles turned whiter than the rest of her body. Even the dust of freckles on the back of her hands disappeared.

How many times had he seen her sprawled out, her sex on display for him—Oswald had lost count, but never did he tire of the scene. He loved every piece of her, and every part of her called out to him. If she had been a siren, as a sailor, he would have gladly wrecked the ship and sacrifice his entire crew to be with her.

And she was his. His little destroyer.

The very thought, each time it arose, made the animal inside of him growl hungrily, possessing him. A woman like Sylvia could make a man's heart stop, but then make it beat all over again. What deadly things she could accomplish with just her fingers alone—and yet, she was crumbling into a sweaty mess because of his touch.

He repeated the simple gesture, teasing her sex with the titillation of his fingers, watching Sylvia's eyes shut tightly and her jaw clench. Beads of perspiration dotted and lined her collar bone and forehead.

She wanted to protest; she wanted to object. But Oswald knew her too well; she _loved_ this, every second and every moment he spent playing with her.

Her painfully quiet exhales and sharp intakes of breath, the way her lips parted and her eyebrows furrowed as she experienced every sensation with the responsiveness of a virgin—all of it riled him up.

"Please," she whispered. "Ozzie, _please_..."

"You're doing so well," Oswald praised softly, sliding two fingers inside her wet walls; the heel of his wrist caused friction against her clit and her thigh muscles tensed. "God, I love seeing you like this."

Her back arched when he curled his knuckles, fingering her deeply in the place she needed him most. She let out a whimper. Sylvia opened her eyes—it looked as though she was suffering from a drug-induced experience. Lust didn't do this to her. **He** did.

Hearing her slutty moans, he'd waited long enough. He withdrew his fingers; the head of his cock barely grazed the slit of her pussy before Sylvia's back arched eagerly once more.

"I love when you anticipate it," Oswald drawled, grinning down at her.

"Oswald, I am **this** close to putting on a strap-on and fucking you myself," Sylvia threatened, glaring at him.

"Promise?" Oswald said, smirking at her.

"Jesus Christ, just fuck me!" Sylvia shouted furiously.

Oswald grabbed her hips, and shoved himself inside of her, all the way to the hilt. Her high-pitched, needy moan escaped her lips in approval.

A series of moans echoed in the room, bouncing off the stone walls. The table, however balanced and stable it proved to be, rocked and creaked with the rhythm of Oswald's thrusts and Sylvia's responsive hips. The candelabras on the table fell over; the chairs that sat just against the furniture were pushed back, scraping the wooden floor.

Oswald straightened, lifting her legs up, ankles on his shoulders; in this position, he penetrated deeper; Sylvia keened in newfound appreciation, her lips parted fully open, and her eyelids fluttered in pure bliss. With the force of his thrusts, Sylvia's breasts bounced up and down, a pleasing sight to behold, indeed.

He could feel himself getting closer. Sylvia was not too far behind him. She was a moaning mess, and he'd let out his grunts and groans with little restraint. His movements became hurried, sloppy and she was begging him to come inside of her. He pushed himself deep inside of her, each thrust harder than the last, propelling over the edge; her muscles tightly grasped around his cock, exacerbating his strong orgasm. He moaned when it hit, spilling his cum inside of her; Sylvia shuddered, enjoying the second orgasm in soft, rippling waves. With his hands cradling Sylvia's hips, Oswald hovered over her, and kissed her swollen lips. She responded eagerly.

Oswald smiled modestly, and kissed her once more. He slowly pulled out of her and the two of them both moaned in satisfaction. He fixed himself, pulling up his pants and rebuttoned his vest and jacket; Sylvia remained on the table, watching him.

"You know you look sexy putting your clothes on as you do taking them off," Sylvia noted.

Oswald chuckled, but the small pink that flushed his cheeks revealed his modesty.

Sylvia brushed a hand through her hair.

After watching him for a minute, she said sincerely, "I _am_ sorry that the Drays gave you shit because of the bank—had I known that it would cause you problems, I wouldn't have done it."

Oswald looked at her pointedly, saying, "In all fairness, Pidge, I should not have been so quick to reprimand."

"Meaning?"

"You are right," Oswald said, holding his hand out to her; she took it, and slid off the table. "I'm the builder, and you are my destroyer. To force you to be anything else is unfair to you."

"Let's make a compromise, then. I'll try to practice a bit more self-control—if you give me first dibs on contracts—like what Falcone did for Victor," Sylvia asked sweetly.

"I have a feeling this marriage will be full of compromise," Oswald noted.

"That's all marriage is," said Sylvia pointedly. "If you think ours will be any different, we might as well call it off right now."

"I have no intention of doing that."

"Neither do I."

There was a shift in the dynamic of conversation as Oswald asked, "Did Jim seem like he was behaving differently than usual?"

"Yeah—You're not 'Oswald Cobblepot' anymore; You're running the Underworld. Of course, he would behave differently." Sylvia added as an afterthought, "I may have also told my brother that you're amazing in the sack."

Oswald looked at her with widened eyes.

"What, he asked what I saw in you," Sylvia said pointedly. "I told him you were sophisticated, well-dressed, you had the intelligence that borders on a level of a psychotic genius. He was being nosy, so I tossed it in there."

"I don't know if I should be feeling embarrassed or flattered," Oswald muttered as he straightened his tie.

"Well, you should be feeling both," said Sylvia smoothly. "And those only begin to describe the many reasons why I love you."

Oswald smiled in response.

"I love you too, Pigeon."

"I know," Sylvia said, beaming.

"Would I be correct in assuming he's still opposing the wedding?" Oswald asked.

"Yes, but I'm not surprised, to be honest."

"It doesn't bother you?" Oswald questioned as he straightened his tie.

"It does—but it won't stop me from marrying you." Sylvia responded. "Now, shall I go fetch Tommy Bones, Victor, and the Gorilla? I can't imagine we're done with the meeting."

"Please," Oswald said, nodding at her suggestion.

Sylvia approached him, and readjusted his tie, fitting it snugly in his vest. He watched her with adoring eyes; her fingers lingered longer than needed, and she suddenly kissed him passionately; Oswald eagerly reciprocated it. One thing started leading to another, the kiss becoming hot and heavy.

"I'll call the cavalry," said Sylvia breathlessly.

Reluctantly, she broke the kiss, smiling at him apologetically, placing her hand on his chest, and pushing him away from her. She knew if they'd continue at that pace, she'd be back on the table, begging for him all over again. And while he would happily indulge in her desire, there was still business that needed to be tended to. Before she turned on her heel to do gather the forces back into the room, Oswald held fast to the hand on his chest, and it forced her to stumble back slightly.

He kissed her one last time: soft, but meaningful. And she returned it just as lovingly.

Oswald watched her walk out of the room with a great deal of satisfaction, knowing that she craved him just as much as he desired her. She'd become his weakness; and he had become her strength. And what they called that was an Exchange of Power, something that frequently happened between a King and his Queen. And in this case, it would have been inevitable.


	4. The Gordon-Penguin Jealousy Complex

**Chapter Four: The Gordon-Penguin Jealousy Complex**

Tiffany and Sylvia sat at a table on the balcony inside _Lean on Vee_. While the fair blonde flipped through the ledger, discussing with her boss about the finances, Sylvia watched the performers on stage attempt to get their steps aligned with one another.

There were four women altogether on the platform, wearing matching black and red feathered dresses. While these performers had their shit together more than most entertainers, Sylvia was prepared to pick apart their dance. Most of the time, she needn't create the choreography—they came with their own, but Sylvia wasn't impressed with tonight's girls. Tiffany had scouted, and all she'd found were amateurs.

"I restocked the liquor at the bar," reported Tiffany, drumming the point of her pen aimlessly on the notepad. "I paid the electric company the usual premium; they've been insistent on raising their prices. Might have to switch to another one—inflation is a bitch. Other than that, everything is paid for this month; all other expenses become profits in the long run, I think."

Sylvia glanced at Tiffany who peered up at her to make sure she was been attended. Sylvia smiled apologetically.

"You're practically running this club yourself," Sylvia said finally, breaking her silence.

Tiffany said humbly, "Coming from you, that's a relief."

"Well, it's true. You pay the bills, find the entertainment for me, and you manage the staff—half the time, I don't have to be here," said Sylvia pointedly.

"You're the face of the club. I couldn't manage this on my own," said Tiffany quietly.

" _I_ used to say that," Sylvia noted, pointing at her. "But look where I am now."

"And look where you aren't," Tiffany joked.

"Meaning _what_?"

Tiffany bit her lip, thinking she may have overstepped her boundaries. However, Sylvia didn't appear affronted by the comment; Sylvia picked the magenta-colored umbrella from her drink, twirling it between two fingers and sipped on her martini.

Tiffany cleared her throat saying boldly, "You're here at the club, instead of at the mansion. I figured you of all people would prefer to be _there_ instead of _here_."

"Interesting. Why would you assume that?"

"People are calling you the 'Queen of Gotham'…because of Penguin, because he calls himself the ' _King_ of Gotham'." Tiffany explained. "Wouldn't a Queen rule better on the throne than among the peasants?"

Sylvia dropped the umbrella on the table, smirking at Tiffany. She distractedly glanced at the crew on the stage before she leaned towards the blonde.

She said practically, "If I don't spend time with the people I'm allegedly 'ruling', I won't know what the people want. If I don't know what the people want or need, then how would I know how to rule the kingdom? Besides, between you and me, I don't see myself as a queen."

"Your subordinates do," Tiffany offered. "You're practically royalty."

"That's sweet of you to say," said Sylvia, patting Tiffany's wrist.

"It's not just me either. Your men see you as a queen too—they do what you say, when you say without hesitation."

"That's because I _pay_ them to do that," Sylvia replied. "Just as I pay you to work for me."

"I respect you."

"Mm."

Sylvia was certain that Tiffany liked her enough. She could even believe that Tiffany respected her, saw her as a friend, especially after what she'd done for her regarding her abusive ex, but respect in general was hard to come by. She'd seen what Oswald had to do in order to get it.

In an effort to convince her, Tiffany persuaded, "They _do_ respect you."

"Do they?" Sylvia challenged. "Respect and fear are easily confused. All I am to them, Tiff, is the Penguin's girlfriend—they fear _him_ , so they fear **me**. And if they _don't_ fear him, they're scared of my brother."

Tiffany chuckled, "Probably true…No, I'm pretty sure they're more scared of you."

"I highly doubt that."

"Your reputation goes beyond being the Penguin's betrothed and Jim Gordon's little sister," Tiffany informed slyly. "People _know_ what you've done to the spies who've tried crossing Penguin. They know what you're capable of—I mean, you have that Gordon temper."

"You're trying to butter me up, aren't you," Sylvia said playfully, grinning broadly.

Tiffany sighed in defeat, and took a drink of her margarita saying, "You know, you're a _lot_ more perceptive of everyone else than you are of yourself?"

Sylvia looked at her, confused, but Tiffany didn't elaborate on the fact. Sylvia glanced down at the stage once more, watching the women arguing about who had gotten out of step and who needed to fix their dance routine. It was becoming quite the catfight as one girl pushed another girl, and they were all on the stage, pouncing on each other. Like children.

"How _is_ your brother?" Tiffany asked curiously, drawing Sylvia's attention back.

Rolling her eyes, Sylvia answered, "Stubborn—as always."

"Did you talk to him like you said you would?" she asked.

"I did… _ **HEY**_!"—Tiffany jumped as Sylvia addressed the aggressive women on the stage—"Anything you break, you're paying for!"

"Yes, ma'am!" One of the lead dancers shakily responded, then turned to chastise her fellow performers.

Redirecting the conversation back to its original premise, Tiffany continued with concern, "He didn't change his mind?"

"No. And I doubt he will," said Sylvia coldly. "I've never seen him more determined about anything than not attending my wedding. He refuses to accept the inevitable."

"Maybe he's jealous," Tiffany chuckled.

Sylvia narrowed her eyes at the woman across from her.

"What do you mean—'jealous'?" Sylvia inquired.

Tiffany smirked: "I don't mean anything sordid. Gordon's been a part of your life forever. Your father died when you were young, right?"

"I don't see how that matters, but you've peaked my interest. Go on."

"So, he's been the only man in your life—then here comes Penguin—"

"I've had boyfriends before," interrupted Sylvia logically. "And he accepted _them_ …for the most part."

"Well, have you ever been engaged to a criminal before?"

"No, this is the first," Sylvia admitted.

"And there's the problem," Tiffany presumed, shrugging a shoulder. "Gordon never had to share you before—above all, with a criminal. Now that he has to, he doesn't want to. Pretty sure Penguin might feel the same way, but right now, he's in your favor—he has no reason to be jealous because he _knows_ he's on your good side."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, saying, "Let me get this straight. You think Jim and Oswald are fighting over me, to get on my good side…and _that's_ why Jim is refusing to come to my wedding, because he's _jealous_?"

Tiffany uttered, "It sounds ridiculous, I know."

"Wouldn't it make more sense for Jim to come to my wedding in order to get on my good side so he could win my favoritism than refusing to do what I ask which makes me like him even less?"

"Men are funny that way," scoffed Tiffany.

"That _does_ sound ridiculous…but it certainly does bring a few things to light in the past. Jim and I have argued more these days than we have ever argued before…and it always centers around Oswald."

Tiffany scratched her head, and drank the last of her margarita before flagging down one of the familiar bartenders, the younger one named Henry. He had dark brown eyes, brown hair, and a ghost of a smile that seemed constantly plastered to his face. The latter dropped by and gave Tiffany a refresher, and placed a second martini in front of Sylvia, who thanked him.

After flashing a flirtatious smile towards Tiffany, Henry departed.

"Jealous or not," said Sylvia finally, "Both of them are going to have to learn to get along. If not, they're going to drive me crazy."

Tiffany paused before saying lightly, "With men, it's an all-or-nothing. They don't want to share—familial or not."

"How do you know?"

"It's happened to me before," said Tiffany. "Back when Burke and I were together—you remember Burke, right?"

"Of course, I do—I killed him, remember?" said Sylvia flatly.

"Well, memory's a fickle thing," Tiffany stated practically. "Anyway—Burke and I had this friend, Larry, and Larry and I were pretty close. But we were just friends. Burke _hated_ how close we were. After a while, they started having this competition to 'win me over'. Burke would take me to the park after finding out Larry took me to dinner. If Larry got me a charm bracelet for my birthday, Burke got a diamond ring. And if I enjoyed my time with Larry, Burke would get angry and be jealous—and if I had a good time with Burke, Larry would be the angry one. It led to some pretty nasty fights."

"Let me guess—did one of them fly into a jealous rage?" Sylvia said amusedly.

"On Burke's end, yeah," said Tiffany as she picked out the lime garnish wedge out of her drink and placed it on the napkin. "Burke was pissed. He didn't want my heart shared by another man."

"One would call that a reasonable reaction to be angry," said Sylvia. "Did you develop feelings for Larry?"

"Admittedly, yes." Tiffany confessed, her smile faltered.

"Did you sleep with him?"

Indignantly, Tiffany said, "Of course not!"

"Hey," Sylvia held up her hands defensively, saying, "I had to ask. Did Burke make you choose?"

"No. Larry did."

"So, you picked the man who was hitting you day in and day out?" Sylvia said coolly.

"He wasn't abusive then," Tiffany murmured, embarrassed. "It doesn't matter anyway…Burke chose _for_ me."

Sylvia said callously, "That's pathetic."

"May _be_ ," Tiffany sniveled. "But I'm not telling you this so you can judge me for my past, Boss. I'm telling you this because one day soon, your brother or Penguin will eventually become exhausted with competing against each other for your affections and one day, one of them will make you choose. And you'll have to—or one of them will choose _for_ you."

"The only time I will let a man dictate my choices is when I leave for the bathroom and he orders my food at a restaurant," said Sylvia smoothly. "Aside from that, it was a good story."

"It's not an easy choice to make," Tiffany said quietly.

"It's not." Sylvia agreed. "But it shouldn't be a choice you let another person make."

Tiffany was about to respond before Sylvia felt her phone vibrate. On the Caller ID was the name.

 _Jimmy._

"Hold that thought," Sylvia told Tiffany, and she picked up the phone, answering it. "Hey."

"Vee," Jim groused.

"Have you been drinking?"

"A little." He answered groggily.

"Drunk dialing your sister—that's a new low for you." Sylvia noted, standing to her feet.

She strolled away from Tiffany to gather some privacy, and leaned her back against the wall in the hallway. Tiffany rolled her eyes, realizing the conversation was going to be a long one and returned back to her book of finances and check lists.

Jim murmured, "I'm walking back."

"Walking back from where?" Sylvia asked.

"Wayne Manor."

"Why were you there?"

"I had to tell Bruce that I can't keep a promise."

"What promise?" Sylvia questioned.

"I promised I would find his parents' killers."

"Oh, _that_ promise." Sylvia muttered, looking up at the ceiling.

"I can't do that when I'm not a cop."

"Sounds logical to me," commented Sylvia. "And you're walking because a DUI would just be the cherry on top of your evening, right?"

Ignoring her comment, Jim said darkly, "I need you to talk me out of it."

"Talk you out of what?"

"You _know_ what."

"Hm, the Odgen Barker thing?" Sylvia recalled, bouncing her back off the wall. She strolled down the hallway, nodding her head politely to any passersby, but not vocally acknowledging them. "You really want to do it, don't you? Break the law so you can be a cop—I wouldn't see a better example of irony even if it bit me in the ass…"

" _Do not patronize me_."

"Why not?" Sylvia taunted. "How often do I get to cherish these moments? **Look alive, Jim**! Your moral compass is wavering. You're calling _me_ to talk you out of something that I would do without hesitation; doesn't that sound just a little insane?"

"You may have a point," Jim admitted irritably.

"Thank you for saying so, but if it makes you feel any better, I **do** pity you for your situation. I know how much being a cop means to you."

"Tell me not to do it." Jim insisted.

"Get Lee to do that," said Sylvia lightly. " _She's_ your moral compass. Not me."

"She knows I have the way."

"And she knows, I'm betting, you have the will," Sylvia assumed coolly.

"She can't understand."

"Hm."

"I know you can," said Jim quietly.

"Can what?"

"I know you can understand the difficult situation I'm in," Jim muttered.

In the background, there was traffic on Jim's end. He was either on a highway, walking back, or on the busy side of Gotham's backroads.

"So, _that's_ why you're calling me." Sylvia said knowingly. "You want _me_ to tell you that you are in the right, to stop you from feeling guilty for what you're about to do—because you **know** that if placed in your same situation, I _would_ go after Barker. Well, I won't assuage your guilt; in fact, I'll be brutally honest—"

"Please, don't…I'm in _no_ mood…" Jim begged.

Sylvia paid no attention to his plea.

"You do realize that if you do this thing for Oswald, you _will_ have collected a debt for him, and you _will_ have done something dirty to get what you want—you know what that will mean? That will make us the _same_ , you and me."

She could hear Jim snarling. He didn't want to hear that.

For _years_ , Jim Gordon had always chastised Sylvia for her do-wrong personality, her love and passion for crime had always been a barrier between them, just as it has always been a commonality between her and Oswald (although the latter had always done crime in order to accomplish his personal goals while Sylvia just enjoyed crime in general). Despite the constant barrier, Sylvia tolerated his insufferable self-righteousness as a quirk of his, but now…here they were.

There was silence on his end as he digested her words. They were nasty things to swallow.

"What would be worse…" Sylvia said, walking down the stairs of her club.

"Vee—"

"Don't talk, James. _You_ called **me** because you want me to talk you into it—right?"

"Well—"

"Of course, you did. I know you're still competent enough to understand me—as drunk as you may be—but here it is."

"Go on."

"Which would be worse, Jimmy," Sylvia continued calmly. "Not being a cop and living a calm, serene civilian life like Bullock, **or** doing this one bad thing, getting reinstated, and showing Commissioner Loeb that you _can't_ be defeated. There's the easy way, the hard way, and—as you will learn quickly—the ugly way." (She stood in front of the stage, watching the performers attempt to get their shit together.) "If you want, I can come with you—we can get Ogden Barker together. Personally, I'd like nothing more than to fry his ass with a blow torch."

Jim chuckled on the other end, and it took Sylvia by surprise: "Penguin told _me_ to talk to Barker. You'd be going against your boss."

"He said nothing about me coming along for the ride," Sylvia reminded. "Besides, Oswald and I already had a friendly chat about self-control—you don't need to know about the specifics. So, don't worry about me. If things get messy, you'd at least have some back-up—you know how _rare_ thatis?"

Silence on the other line until…

"You've always had my back, Vee," said Jim solemnly. "I can honestly say that."

"Please don't tell me you're becoming a sentimental drunk. I'll hang up right now—"

"I'm not. I'm just saying…"

"Well, I already know it." Sylvia cut him off. "Walk back into town, clear your head, come to the club. We can meet, talk details, and we'll go from there."

"Sounds good."

"Be careful on your way back. You know how Gotham is at night."

"Copy that. Love you, Vee."

"Love you too."

Sylvia hung up and she started choreographing the dancers to a better step-routine when they broke out into another squabble.

* * *

XxXxX

An hour later, Tiffany was scribbling in the books, sitting at the bar while speaking to the 21-year-old barkeep, Henry. The latter was smooth-talking her; he had the affluence of a body-building millionaire, and his interest in older women made Tiffany his next target. Henry was leaned over the counter, telling Tiffany about one of his escapades in Las Vegas when a gruff, dark-blonde, blue-eyed man approached her.

"You must be James Gordon," said Tiffany knowingly, smirking at him.

His rough appearance screamed 'I'M A COP' but with the lack of a badge, it was hard to call him 'Officer Gordon', even when it was tempting. He didn't look too surprised that Tiffany knew who he was, even if he didn't know who _she_ was. Then again: Tiffany worked at his sister's club, so Jim seemed to assume that everyone knew who he was.

"Can you let Vee know I'm here," Jim grunted.

"Sure. Henry, get this man a water, would you?" Tiffany asked sweetly, gesturing to Jim.

Henry nodded, winking at her before he placed a glass of H2O in front of the former cop, who sat down on a stool with a sharp exhalation. He rubbed his temples, waiting. Tiffany left shortly, and came back with Sylvia who had changed out of her usual dresses and into black capris and a red, fitted long-sleeve shirt. She wore black, lace-up boots with an impressive block heel.

Sylvia gestured for Jim to follow her and he did; they sat at a table, opposite of each other.

"How was your walk?" Sylvia asked.

"Long," Jim answered darkly.

He glanced at the stage where the women were performing a dance, their hips gyrated a great deal, but it seemed to hold the attention of the other club members.

Sylvia crossed her arms on the slick ebony table, smiling at him.

"What have you decided?" Sylvia asked.

"No decision to make. I'm a cop."

"You want me to come?"

"Honestly? No."

"Then why meet me here?" Sylvia asked.

"Came here for a different reason. I have something else to tell you."

"Which is?"

Jim sighed, and he looked as though he was being poked with a cattle prod in order for him to expel whatever needed to come out of his mouth. When a few beats passed, and his lips curled in disgust a few times, he let out a defeated sigh.

"I want you to be happy," Jim said, his voice faltered half-way through. "I want to be happy for you, but you'll understand why I can't."

"Spit it out," said Sylvia. "While we're young, man."

"I'll attend your wedding," said Jim quietly.

Sylvia blinked.

"I imagine you want something in return for this," said Sylvia coolly, interlacing her fingers together on her lap.

Jim's forehead furrowed.

Before he could respond, Sylvia stated cynically, "You've been in denial about this for _months_. Even when I was engaged, you thought Oswald and I were never going to last. And suddenly, you come to me and tell me that you're going to be _happy_ for me on my **wedding** day, that you'll even attend it. And it can't be a coincidence that you're telling me this _just_ before you've decided to collect a debt for Penguin."

Jim said defensively, "Would it suffice for me to say it's because I'm your brother?"

"No, it wouldn't," said Sylvia. "Because it's coming from you."

"You know that I _do_ want your happiness, right?"

"Hm. I realize that you view yourself as being on a very high pedestal when it comes to morale, and you like to push your ethic views on me," Sylvia responded crisply. She lifted her hands in surrender when Jim winced, adding, "But if it's any consolation, I know it comes from a good place."

Jim let out an exasperated groan.

"Often times, you fail to remember that I _know_ you, James—from _way_ back.

"I know you _hate_ that I am with Penguin. You hate it, loathe it, and if you had the power to do so, you would make it so that I would never have met him." Sylvia told him calmly. "And it's not just him. You can't stand the fact that I would love anyone other than you—"

"That sounds sick, Vee—"

"I don't mean for it to be," Sylvia reassured. "Your love for me is devout, unconditional. Familial. And that's all it's ever been—thank god—but it doesn't erase the fact that you are possessive. And it's understandable, because _I_ am all you have."

Jim said weakly, "I have Lee."

"And you had Barbara—that is, until she went batshit crazy," said Sylvia pointedly. "And you have Dr. Thompkins for now until she decides she can't deal with your crazy lifestyle, or something happens later on the down the line where she can't stand to be around you. When it comes down to it, James, you and I are all we have, because we have learned to tolerate one another and the crazy lives we both have led…and still lead. And it's been like that for years."

"Interesting point," Jim muttered. Then abruptly, he questioned, "Wait—you think Lee will leave me?"

"I didn't say that," Sylvia said quickly. "My point is that it has been like that for years, _until now_. Things are changing. I'm going to marry Oswald. And one way or another, you will have to learn how to share me."

Jim scoffed, "You're saying I'm jealous?"

"Aren't you?" Sylvia remarked smartly.

"I'm _not_ jealous you're with Penguin."

"Oh, really? So, you _don't_ get upset when I rebuke your antiquated sense of self-righteousness and boy scout thinking for a criminal mastermind?"

"He's not a criminal mastermind—"

"He sure gave the Underworld a run for their money," Sylvia pointed out.

"Fish did most of the work—She shot Maroni—"

"And Oswald pushed her over a ledge, can we return back to the discussion at hand?"

"Gladly. And I'm not jealous."

"Ah. So, you _don't_ get irritated when I hold his hand in front of you?"

"Would you get a little possessive if Lee held _my_ hand?" Jim questioned.

"Sure, I get overprotective of you, but I couldn't give a shit if she gave you head while we were sitting side-by-side at a circus," Sylvia uttered sardonically.

"That's actually more problematic than comforting," Jim muttered uncomfortably.

"Well, you shy away from PDA anyway, so we don't have to worry about that," Sylvia stated carelessly. "And another thing—You were pissed off when you found out that we were dating."

Jim pointed at her saying, "I was pissed off when I found out you two were dating because he came back to Gotham after I told him _not to_ —Falcone had contracts out on us!"

"You couldn't tell him to stay away—Gotham is his home," Sylvia said logically.

"Cards on the table," said Jim abrasively, "Any man you marry would be better than him."

"You'd despise any man I would marry because you would no longer be the center of my focus, James. You think there won't come a day where you and Penguin will be at each other's throats, and I won't choose between you two?"

Jim grimaced as though the very question stabbed him in the leg.

"You think I would put you in that position?" Jim asked reproachfully, obviously hurt.

"You wouldn't mean to," Sylvia told him. "But you would inadvertently do so."

Defensively, Jim said through gritted teeth, "Penguin could do the same thing."

Sylvia threw her hands up in the air saying, "At that point, I would have to choose neither of you. I should never be placed in a situation where I have to choose between my brother and my husband. If that happens, I will _walk away_."

"Just like that?"

"See…" said Sylvia tiredly. "I didn't give Tiffany credit, because _she_ made the **wrong** decision. In the same situation, she was given these same decisions to make—she let someone choose for her. I will not allow that to happen to me."

Jim said with forced calm, "Before you make me out to be the bad guy, what do you think Penguin will do when you finally choose to be on **my** side for a change? What happens when you and him finally don't agree? I doubt he likes sharing either," Jim said pointedly.

Sylvia let out a scathing noise: "How would _you_ know that?"

"I know his type."

Sylvia sighed, "If I ever decide to pick _your_ side, it'll be because I am completely against whatever he's done—that rarely ever happens. Normally, I can't stand what **you** do."

"That doesn't bode well, as I'm normally doing what the law says everyone _should_ do."

"Yep," Sylvia chirped. "Sounds about right, which actually brings us to the reason you are here."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Does it? I said I came here to tell you that I would come to your wedding."

"And you've said it. But there's more," Sylvia sneered. "You want me to look the other way and pretend you're _not_ going to collect a debt for Oswald. As long as I do that, you'll still come to my wedding. You won't back out. You won't get cold feet. Just as long as I don't remind you of what you are about to do. Ain't that right?"

Jim frowned.

"See?" Sylvia said sheepishly. "I told you. I _know_ you. You always want something from me. You never want something for _nothing_. And that is why you always lose when I have the inclination to choose sides."

Jim said irritably, "Forget the damn comparison— I **can't** come back from this, Vee!"

"I know you can't."

"And you won't let me live it down if I do this."

"Your detective skills are _sharp_ as ever," Sylvia said satirically, "In all honesty, I've been hoping for something like this to happen, so I can prove to you that nothing is ever black and white in Gotham. I've told you before—there is black, white, grey, blue, and lots and lots of red. And if Ogden Barker does _not_ like what you have to say, Jimmy, you can bet your ass that there _will_ bered."

Jim rubbed his face, looking as though he was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"If you want help, I will come with you," Sylvia offered. "If anything, I will come as your own moral support."

"I can't ask you to do that."

"You don't have to—I'd gladly come along," said Sylvia. "We haven't had an adventure together as brother and sister since you and I took down that rich dick, Sionis. I hear he went to Arkham too."

"I can't risk your safety."

"Fuck my safety—I'm the fucking Queen of Gotham. If Barker hurts _you,_ he's just killing a civilian—don't look at me like that, you **are** a civilian—But if he hurts **me** , he has to deal with my men as well as Oswald's men, and not to mention Victor Zsasz."

"Yeah, I hear you and him are best friends," Jim muttered resentfully.

"I wouldn't say we're 'best friends', but we do make pretty good 'contract buddies'," Sylvia chuckled.

"You're not helping at all."

"I never help make matters better," Sylvia said lazily. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her ankles on the floor. "So, what do you want to do, Slim-Jim? You're at a crossroads, _Mister_ Gordon. It's now or never—but I prefer now…I have to return some video tapes."

Jim looked up at her pointedly.

"You're not coming with me," said Jim. "If you get hurt again at my expense, I won't be able to forgive myself."

"Yeah," she sighed, "We both know how _that_ went last time. The scar's pretty much gone though, so no worries."

"I apologized for not shooting him when I had the chance," Jim reminded.

"And _I_ said I forgave you for it. But if we're being realistic, what are the odds that I would be shot in the neck _and_ live to blame you for it again?" Sylvia said cynically. "That's like one in a million."

"I still don't like the odds."

"Those are pretty damn good odds though."

Jim gave her a discerning look, saying, "I don't want you to come with me."

Sylvia shrugged, raising her arms over her head.

" _Your_ choice. But be careful. I hear Barker is a hothead."

"Duly noted," said Jim callously.

"Whether you come to my wedding or not," Sylvia said calmly, "You'll have this on your conscience. I won't have to remind you because you'll always remember this for the rest of your life."

"You won't mention this to anyone, will you?" Jim asked cautiously.

Sylvia said lightly, "Mention what?"

Jim allowed himself a small smile, and Sylvia returned it.

He stood to his feet, drank the rest of his water, and placed the glass on the table. He looked at her for the longest time and then pressed his lips against her forehead. Sylvia smiled up at him.

"I love you, Vee."

"Don't get all sappy on me, Jim. You'll live another day."

Jim chuckled, and patted her on the shoulder. Sylvia placed her hand over his, patting his hand in the same gesture.

"Love you too," Sylvia said finally.

As he strolled out of the building, he strode with a new purpose.

* * *

Author's Note: Merry-belated-Christmas, and a New Year folks. I meant to update this before the Holiday was over, but editing is a _bitch_. And for whatever reason, I couldn't upload any of my chapters. But apparently, it's been fixed so here you go!


	5. Wedding Plans

Chapter Five: Wedding Plans

Oswald reclined comfortably on his throne while Sylvia sat adjacent to him, a large binder titled "Wedding" splayed in front of her as she ticked off the items on their To-Do list. Between them was a bottle of Champagne placed in a bucket of ice, and two glasses filled to the brim a second time. Classical music played on the radio at a low volume as they discussed the particulars of what was going to be the most important night of their lives.

"Where do you want the wedding?" Sylvia asked lightly, looking up at Oswald.

Her bare feet had abandoned her white stilettos on the floor and were perched on Oswald's lap; where her ankles had been hooked together, he separated them to rub the ball of her left foot. Sylvia smiled at the affectionate gesture; he met her smile with one of his own.

"The church," Oswald answered decidedly.

"Traditional wedding, it is," Sylvia said, scribbling the details in her planner. Looking at him coyly, she asked, "Were you raised Christian or Catholic?"

"The former," Oswald returned with a modest shrug. "I could quote Bible verses to you if you want proof."

She lifted a hand, saying quickly, "No thanks."

His fingers slid atop of her foot, his thumbs dug into the arch, and he grinned when a soft exhale of relief escaped her lips.

"We should have lilies," Sylvia uttered, turning a page in the binder.

Oswald's eyebrows quirked at the suggestion, and he looked at her once-over. Sylvia met his eyes briefly. It wasn't an untold fact that she knew Gertrude's favorite flower was a lily. If Sylvia wanted the same, who was he to object to such a sentimental gesture?

"Any recommendations for the florist?" Oswald said humorously.

After a moment's thought, Sylvia clicked her tongue, and said, "Joe!"

Oswald raised his eyebrows at her abrupt brainstorm: " _Who_?"

"I robbed him once," Sylvia reminisced. "He has a store—cheap costs, but legitimate products; he breeds hybrids. Have you ever seen the product of a rose and a lily?"

"Can't say I have."

Sylvia's face lit up as she said, "It's a sight to behold."

"Joe, it is," Oswald agreed, finding humor in her sudden fascination with the plant (since most plants gave her the feeling of being suffocated).

She wrote the name in the same placement of the flowers she preferred. As she did, the classical music playing softly on the radio changed its tune—instead of the grand piano, violins took its place, a string quartet version of ' _Fur Elise_ '.

"How big are we planning this thing to be?" Sylvia asked as she tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. "The whole Maid-of-Honor and bridesmaids is a little over-the-top to me. Always has been, really."

Oswald chuckled, "Don't women imagine having a huge wedding?"

"Most do, I suppose," she admitted. She scrunched her nose playfully, adding, "But I'm not 'most women'. Am I?"

"No," he agreed. "You most definitely are not."

"Aside from your mother, my brother—there isn't anyone else I have in mind that's outside of the organization that we need to invite. Tiffany will be in attendance—she has a side-job as a freelance photographer."

Oswald lifted Sylvia's right foot, and kissed the top of it. She watched him, smiling when he repeated the same gesture against the inside of her ankle.

"That reminds me," Sylvia stated as an afterthought. "We'll have to make invitations."

"I'll let Gabe take care of it," Oswald said, motioning towards the door where Gabe stood outside, along with the other minions.

"We could send him to book the church," Sylvia thought aloud. "Actually, I'll have Tiffany do it—she's less intimidating." She checked off another objective from the list: "Time?"

"Evening," Oswald decided.

"Evening, it is. Date?"

"I'll leave that up to you," said Oswald, smiling at her.

"I'll make it the 24th," said Sylvia, scribbling in her planner. "It's not a holiday, so traffic should be less cumbersome. That gives me three weeks to find a dress."

"Take Victor," Oswald offered, smirking. "He likes window shopping."

"For guns, maybe." Sylvia chuckled. "But dresses?"

"Don't underestimate him; he has an eye for grandeur," He reassured.

"Fine. I'll take Victor window shopping after I deal with Gregor."

At the mention of the truant's name, Oswald's expression hardened, all playfulness dropped. Sylvia recognized the look.

"Butch informed me that he isn't backing down," Sylvia informed. "He's holding onto the past."

"But I doubt you wanted him to be so easily persuaded," Oswald said knowingly.

"Mm, you can read me like a book," Sylvia cooed, smirking. "Ever since I found out he's been running a sex shop, I've waited for an excuse to beat him over the head with a frying pan."

She dropped her pen on the binder, and slowly removed her feet off Oswald's lap and onto the floor. Oswald's eyes never left hers as she slid between himself and the table; the corners of his lips quirked into a smile when she straddled his lap. Her hands rested gingerly on his shoulders, fingertips smoothing the lapels of his jacket; her feet hovered above the wooden floor.

"Do I have your _permission_ to kill him?" Sylvia asked softly; she puckered her lips innocently, "I don't want to get in trouble again."

Oswald tilted his head back, resting it against the back of the chair while simultaneously meeting her adulated gaze. He cradled her hips in his palms, the smallest wiggle of her body sent a small tingling sensation down his spine—naughty, dirty images of having her bent over the table obscured his focus.

"I'd rather you _try_ and keep him alive," Oswald said firmly.

"'Keep him alive'," Sylvia reiterated. "Copy that. Anything else, Boss?"

"When you pay Gregor a visit, bring Victor with you."

Sylvia sighed, "I'm already bringing him window-shopping. I don't need a babysitter."

"Gregor is a pretentious ass," Oswald said calmly. "I don't trust him around women, especially around _you_."

"Fine. If it will bring you peace of mind, I'll bring Victor with me," Sylvia compromised. "After, I'll go by the store, look for a dress, and…maybe something more…titillating for tonight." She slowly swiveled her hips, grinding her body against his suggestively—and another jolt of electricity shot through him, the quietest involuntary moan escaped him.

She purred, "Would that make my Daddy Penguin happy?"

Her new pet name for him echoed in his ears. Her hand trailed down from his chest to his pants and she palmed him between his legs. Oswald moaned into her mouth.

She tilted her head, licked his earlobe, saying gently, "I'll take that as a 'yes'?"

Oswald closed his eyes, allowing her honeyed words to paint a vision as she continued to whisper dirty things in his ear. The torturous steady grind of her hips coaxed his own to move against them.

Sylvia lowered her head so they kissed, soft and tenderly, but his hands held her jaw, claiming her mouth for his own. She let out a small, surprised gasp but he could feel her smug smile.

The doors flew open, causing Sylvia and Oswald to look at Victor.

"Sylvia, are you ready _yet_?" Victor questioned impatiently.

"Didn't I tell you to knock?" Oswald snapped.

"I'll be right out," Sylvia reassured the hitman, smiling politely. Victor glanced oddly at the compromising position of the two of them before he suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and left the room, sharply turning on his heel, closing the doors on his exit.

Sylvia turned to look at Oswald who was—with great reason—mildly annoyed.

"Duty calls," Sylvia said silkily. "To be continued."

She stood up and nuzzled his cheek before leaving the room. Oswald watched her leave, and straightened his suit where she'd ruffled him up with her tantalizing dance.


	6. Office Spouses

Chapter Six: Office Spouses

Victor sat in the passenger seat, one of the two Glocks cradled affectionately in his hands. Patient as ever, the professional hitman admired his baby, and for the umpteenth time, he checked to make sure it was loaded. Part of this routine was to be doubly sure that nothing would go awry—he had the boss' most precious gem in the driver's seat with him, after all—double checking his ammo, triple checking that the firing pins were in working order (can't have the guns jamming on him if things got messy—as they always did when Sylvia was involved).

"I'm glad we're not in a hurry or anything," Victor said sarcastically, glancing at Sylvia who had spent the last thirty minutes attempting to parallel park.

Sylvia re-corrected the vehicle out of the tight parking space for the twentieth time; she expelled a frustrated sigh as she cranked the steering wheel as far left as it could possibly go and tapped the accelerator with the toe of her laced boot before letting out another irritated sigh.

"Shut _up_ , Victor. I can do it."

"Have you ever seen _SpongeBob_?" Victor asked casually.

Taken aback by the arbitrary question, Sylvia scoffed, " _What_?"

"Those little time cards would be perfect right now," Victor explained humorously; he held up his hands, pretending to hold an invisible cardboard sign: "We need one that says 'Five Hours Later'…Gregor will be onto us and he'll have fled Gotham _and_ —"

"I reiterate: shut up," Sylvia snipped.

"How about you ask me nicely?"

" _Please_ , shut up."

Ignoring the heavy dripping sarcasm, Victor said, "Do you want me to do it?"

"No, I _don't_ want you to do it," Sylvia snapped, glaring at him.

She drove the stick in 'Reverse', wrapped an arm behind Victor's head rest, and peering over her shoulder, she mumbled, "Asshole."

Victor sighed in resignation, resisting the powerful urge to roll his eyes out of his respect for her, and he re-checked his weapons once more. If anything, it was just something to do while Sylvia slowly drove herself into a furious rage (no pun intended).

"If I did it," Victor insisted, holstering his weapons, "it would only take two minutes."

"I can park the **goddamn** car, Victor!" Sylvia retorted. "Okay? I know how to drive! The fucker in front of me didn't pull forward enough and the one behind me isn't backed up—it's like trying to fit a bookend into a tightly fitted shelf full of boring autobiographies!"

"That's oddly specific," Victor commented.

Furious, Sylvia snarled, "Why the **fuck** does he not have his own goddamn driveway anyway—he lives in a fucking _house_!"

"Maybe you should bring that up to him when we finally have the chat," Victor suggested, suppressing a grin when Sylvia shot him a filthy look.

She cranked the wheel to the right, and the car seemed to resist with a 'thud!' but she ignored it and once more, she slowly pressed down on the accelerator. Whatever the malfunction—be it her driving or the mechanisms of the car—it shot forward suddenly and caused a fender bender, knocking out the tail light of the car in front of them.

" _Fuck Nuggets!_ " Sylvia shouted, hitting the dashboard contemptuously.

"Liv, let me park the car," Victor offered calmly. "We'll get this over with, we'll go inside, have a chat with the man; you can have your temper tantrum inside."

"Don't patronize me," Sylvia snapped. "I'm **not** having a temper tantrum."

"Sorry, but I have to disagree."

"Then please do so in silence!" Sylvia responded harshly.

Victor sighed, raising his eyebrows, "I haven't the slightest idea how you and the Boss get along so swimmingly. Between your temper and his, I'm surprised you—"

" _Get out_." Sylvia ordered, glaring at him.

Victor held his hands up, smirking, and he did as he was told. He closed the door and stood on the curb side.

"Turn the wheel to the left," Victor advised.

"Go in and talk to Gregor," Sylvia stated curtly. "I'll handle _this_."

"I'm talking you through it," Victor said firmly, ignoring her orders. He placed his hands on the roof of the car, lowering his head so he could peer through the driver's window. "Turn the wheel to the left."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're a terrible driver," Victor replied sheepishly. "No offense."

"I'm too pissed to even be offended," Sylvia grumbled.

"Stop being stubborn, and turn the wheel."

"Ask me nicely," Sylvia said with a little smile.

" _Please_ " (Victor spoke through gritted teeth) " _Please_ turn the wheel to the left."

He walked her through the instructions as to how to parallel park but even with his guidance, Sylvia backed into the car behind her and caused a fender bender.

"That's it! I've had it with this _cunting_ car!" Sylvia bellowed.

Angrily, Sylvia yanked the keys out of the ignition, stepped out, and slammed the door shut.

Victor's eyebrows raised as Sylvia prowled towards the car that was parked erroneously behind them.

She shattered the driver's seat window with her elbow, wincing at the pain only for a second before craning her arm inside and unlocked the door; wordlessly, she pulled it open, plopped into the seat, and for a few minutes, Victor couldn't even see the top of her head as she was bent forward, leaning into the floor board.

"Liv, what are you doing?" Victor questioned.

"Shut up, I'm doing something…I just need to find—there it is! HA!" Sylvia praised; a maniacal laugh soon followed.

She straightened up, grinning maliciously when she had finished hot-wiring the car. Cranking the gears, she let off the brake and the car started rolling backwards.

"You have enough room now, you can stop the car…" Victor pointed out, gesturing to the large gap between the tail end of their own vehicle and the front of the stranger's car.

Sylvia heard him, all right. But she didn't stop.

She quickly hopped out of the driver's seat, leaving the door hanging open and then pushed the car just enough so that it rolled down the hill and careened into the several cars that had been correctly parallel parked.

Victor's lips parted in surprise at the catastrophe that followed—luckily, most of the cars seemed to have been vacated, but still…what if they hadn't been?

"Feeling a little impulsive, are we?" Victor asked coolly as Sylvia brushed by him.

"I couldn't help it, Victor—the asshole behind us vexed me; his parking skills are horrific." Sylvia answered half-heartedly.

"Did you bring a shovel?"

"No. Will we need one?"

"Probably. I imagine this is going to be one of those talks that ends with a human-sized hole and a shovel."

"I'm not digging any holes."

"You've probably dug yourself one, metaphorically speaking," Victor pointed out, tilting his head to the devastation at the bottom of the hill.

"Oh, you're a poet with the rhetoric."

"Your brother won't be happy once he realizes you've given more work for him to do," Victor said amusedly.

"What, you're not going to tell on me, are you?" Sylvia questioned, flashing a mischievous smile at him. She opened the trunk, and continued: "Besides, what my brother thinks is irrelevant. He was fired from the police force—Oh, look at that—I _did_ bring a shovel! Ha. What do you know!"

Again, Victor attempted to suppress the urge to roll his eyes, but only just. He'd thought many times that Penguin had a tendency to be thrown into a violent temper tantrum—like a spoiled child who didn't get their way. With Sylvia, she could react one of two ways: with deadly calm or destructive compulsion.

Victor would not admit it to anyone else, and sometimes, not even himself: Sylvia was the only person who could spook him.

But he had a special spot in his heart reserved especially for her. Victor could see why Penguin liked having her around; she was down-to-earth, personable, attractive, intellectual, and sassy as fuck. The part that Victor found less attractive was her stubbornness, but that seemed to be a family trait.

Sylvia pulled out a switchblade from what looked to be a jewelry box. The switchblade in its right was five inches of stainless steel; the handle, micarta. She flicked her thumb over the switch and said blade flipped out of its shell.

It wasn't the first time Victor had seen this knife, nor was it the first time he'd seen this sort of ritual. This side of Sylvia—her sadistically artistic side—was what made her a tolerable contract buddy. Victor could deal with her snippy comments for reasons that included the fact she was his boss' betrothed, just so he could watch her work.

Watching Sylvia torture people was better than watching a game on the television. Gregor didn't know it; but he was in a world of hurt. Not only did Gregor not appreciate the new regime that was Penguin's order, he had also been running a sex shop that was full of vulnerable, abused women—and some of them weren't even of age. Double whammies for Gregor, but triple lottery for Victor's entertainment.

What Victor and Sylvia disagreed upon was just how the death should come. Sylvia played with her food longer than for what was needed; Victor would eventually become tired of the games, and prefer the victim to eat a bullet. Sylvia didn't like guns; she thought they were anticlimactic.

"Bringing out the knife, huh?" Victor teased as he and Sylvia approached the front door. "How original of you."

"Keep smacking the bull, Mr. Zsasz," she warned, "and you'll get the horns."

"I wonder what that's like," Victor murmured, smirking at her.

"Like you haven't thought of it before?" Sylvia remarked, glancing at him.

"I plead the fifth."

" _Scandalous_ ," Sylvia pipped playfully; she gave the door a once-over, saying, "Should we go in?"

"We have a few minutes," Victor stated, glancing at his watch. "Surprisingly, we have time to spare—you know, after _that_ debacle."

"I _parked_ the fucking car," Sylvia retorted. "I told you I would take care of it and I did."

"Mm-hm—with five minutes to spare."

"He didn't park right. It's not my fault."

"Well, it doesn't matter now," Victor reminded. "They're all in a pile at the bottom of the hill."

"Serves them right—they'll remember how to do it next time."

"Or maybe next time you can just choose—oh, I don't know— _a parking lot_."

"The nearest one was five blocks away, and I'm _pretty_ sure you know that."

Standing on her right, Victor tilted his head ever so slightly to the left and muttered, "I didn't know you could hot-wire a car."

"Well, _now_ I'm offended." Sylvia pretended to be hurt. "If you don't think I can hot-wire a car then we are not operating on the same level of respect."

"I meant no offense."

"You lie," Sylvia kidded, flashing him a crooked smile.

Her belly rumbled, and she placed her hand over it.

"We should have brought snacks," Victor said, thinking the same as she.

"We can grab pizza afterward," Sylvia offered. "You still like pepperoni?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods?"

"Pepperoni, it is. What does your watch say?"

"Five after six," Victor answered without looking.

"I say we'll do this thing for about an hour, at the most—get pizza after; I still have to go dress shopping. Oswald suggested you come with me," Sylvia invited. "He says you have an eye for fashion."

"Not to toot my own horn, but I do."

"Toot, toot." Sylvia whistled.

She brushed one hand through her hair, twirling the knife in the other. Victor turned to look at her completely, body and all.

"You're not going to go all 'Bridezilla' on me, are you?" Victor questioned cautiously.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sylvia playfully chastised. "I'm not picky."

"This should be fun, then."

"Quite." Sylvia chirped enthusiastically. "Now, do you know what we want to do here? We can't be crossing streams like before."

"That's an odd way of putting it."

"Well, the last time we did this, you said _you'd_ torture and _I_ would kill, but if I remember correctly, _you_ ended up doing all of it," Sylvia stated. "Now, if I play with Gregor, you get to kill him, but you can't chime in on the torture when things start getting good."

Victor resigned, "You know what? I won't even argue with you on this one. Consider it my wedding present; you can do it all."

"The torture _and_ the killing?" Sylvia asked.

"I thought the Boss wanted you to keep him alive," Victor reminded, side-glancing at her, as he knocked on the door.

"He said 'try'."

"So, you assume that means 'don't'?"

"You know me too well, Victor," Sylvia said, winking at him. "It's like we're married, work hubby."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves; we're only on our third date," Victor chimed.

"I know; we've not even gotten to second base," Sylvia joked.

Victor opened his mouth like he was offended, saying, "That's not true—I saw your legs once."

" _Scoundrel_ ," Sylvia gasped. She said mischievously, "It seems only fair that I should see yours."

"I'm saving myself for marriage," Victor replied—although Sylvia couldn't tell if he was being profound or he was still playing along.

Sylvia persisted: "At _least_ hold my hand."

"Nope."

"You're such a prude," Sylvia murmured.

Victor snorted while Sylvia snickered. He knocked on the door again. There was no answer.

"Maybe he's not home?" Sylvia suggested.

"What makes you think he's not?"

"What makes you think he _is_?"

"His car's parked outside."

" _Was_ ," Sylvia corrected smartly. "It's at the bottom of the hill."

"My point still stands."

"The lights are off," Sylvia noted quietly. "Maybe he went for a walk."

"An energy-efficient gangster," Victor said amusedly. "That's a new one for the books."

"You never know—Falcone was one hell of a gangster and he liked chickens."

Victor glanced at Sylvia pointedly, and she met the expression with a soft one of her own. Once upon a time, Victor worked for Falcone and Sylvia had been threatened by Falcone's presence. While Sylvia had always considered Falcone to be a hard-ass, she always respected the man for his old-fashioned, traditional tastes. And this respect seemed to register with Victor on the same level.

"What if he isn't home?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"Well, that would be counterproductive."

"Let's break in."

"Well, you've already upset the car insurance companies," Victor sighed, indicating the vehicular disaster at the bottom of the hill, "Breaking and entering doesn't seem too bad after—Whoa, _Liv_!"

Sylvia threw a potted plant through the window, shattering glass. She looked at him innocently.

"What?" She mewed.

Victor grabbed Sylvia's arm and yanked her from view once he heard gunfire.

"Has it ever occurred to you that there would be guards here?" Victor questioned through gritted teeth.

"Live in the moment, Victor," Sylvia said, punching him playfully in the shoulder. "The time for action is NOW! While we're still young!"

"You're so impulsive!" Victor groaned. "How does someone like Penguin keep you under control?"

Sylvia ignored his comment saying, "Well, look on the bright side, Vic: we know he's home."

"And you almost had your head blown off."

"Now you're just being a pessimist," she tittered.

When the gunfire stopped, Victor stood cautiously to his feet.

"I am here for Gregor Miles!" Victor called out loudly. "I am _only_ here for him. The rest of you are free to go…!"

Silence followed.

"I'm here too!" Sylvia sang. "If you fuckers want to live another day, I suggest you get the hell out!"

Victor rolled his eyes. She was so far away from being a professional, the oceans could not have put more distance between them.

Steadily, one by one, five men wearily stepped out of the door—one even hopped through the window for whatever reason. Sylvia was certain he was either drunk or high on life as he took the road less traveled by.

As the last gentleman hurried out of the house, Victor caught him by the arm. Frightened, the man shook like a leaf in the fall.

"Is he in there?" Victor questioned.

"Yes."

" **Alive**?" Sylvia interrogated harshly.

Even more frightened of the woman, the man barely whispered, "Yes."

"Good." Victor said, smiling happily.

The man edged away from Victor once he was released out of his grip and placed a great amount of distance in a short amount of time between Sylvia and Victor, and himself. When the last man standing had abandoned the post, Victor nodded for Sylvia to go ahead of him.

"Ladies first."

"Well, how charming of you," Sylvia enthused; she started to take a step forward.

"Just kidding," Victor joked, pulling her back. " _I'll_ go first—if you get killed, I'll be shot dead quicker than you say 'oops'."

"You said I could have him!"

"Don't worry," he reassured. "I'm only protecting you."

"God, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that."

"I said I would give him to you as a gift," Victor reminded firmly. "I'm a man of my word. Now, please. With all due respect, would you stop talking? It's highly distracting."

Sylvia restrained herself to muted irritation as Victor stepped ahead of her and slowly advanced into the house, both of his guns taken out of their sheaths and aimed ahead of him. He reminded Sylvia of a predator, slow, calculating, meticulous—there was something leery about a man who had the patience of a spider.

"You're not going to get a cent!" Gregor was heard shouting, his voice sounding like it was muffled, but echoing at the same time.

"He's in the bathroom," Victor detected.

"That explains the echo," Sylvia uttered sarcastically.

"Has anyone told you that sarcasm is anger's ugly cousin?"

"Has anyone ever told you that I couldn't give two shits?" Sylvia replied smoothly.

"And I thought _Jim_ was argumentative," Victor mumbled, rolling his eyes.

"I'm a force to be reckoned with," Sylvia teased. "Bow before the hurricane."

She and Victor loosened their grip on their weapons of choice as they approached the bathroom. It was, indeed, locked (as Sylvia tried jiggle the knob), and Gregor's voice whimpered from behind the door.

"I don't owe that freak a single penny!" Gregor shouted.

Sylvia rapped her knuckles on the door, "It's not nice to call people names."

Victor sheathed his weapons; he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, smirking as Sylvia tapped the door again even gentler.

Her voice lowered to the soft tones like that of a mother speaking to a frightened child; she was provoking the macho-man syndrome that Gregor undeniably had.

"Momma's not angry with you," Sylvia coaxed, a sinister smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Momma just wants to talk."

"Fuck you!"

Sylvia lost her soothing tone the moment he cursed: "Open the door, Gregor. Open the door, and—"

"I'm not giving you anything!"

"Oh, we are _way_ beyond that!" Victor chuckled. "Trust me. If I were you, I'd stay locked behind that door."

"That fucking bitch doesn't scare me."

"From this standpoint, I'd say differently," said Victor lazily.

"I know, right," Sylvia muttered, glancing at Victor in agreement. She addressed Gregor: "My man, if you don't open the door, I will have break it down. If you make me go through all that, it will only make matters worse for you!"

"You're going to kill me—"

"And I would be justified in doing so!" Sylvia shouted; she kicked the bottom of the door with her boot in a sudden temper. "You're delinquent in debt, and you refuse to play ball. The only option left is to make an example out of you so people will learn how to play the game!"

"FUCK YOU!"

Victor sighed.

Sylvia glanced at him curiously.

"Liv, I'm down for these games, but I'll have to be honest," said Victor with forced calm. "I don't like the way he's talking to you."

After due consideration, she turned her attention back at the door: "Gregor, do you hear him! He doesn't like how you've been talking to me. Save yourself a bullet. Unlock the door, come out."

"Go fuck your brother, whore."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows at the insult, and was amused by it. However, Victor looked murderous. He slowly pulled out one of his babies, and cocked it. Sylvia stepped back as Victor placed an arm in front of her, guiding her behind him.

Victor had heard enough of Gregor's disrespect.

He shot one bullet in the key hole, unlocking the door. He put two bullets each in Gregor's knees (and he screamed bloody murder). The man had tucked himself in the bathtub; the ceramic white floor was stained with blood; the shower walls glistened with maroon spots.

Sylvia leaned against the doorframe, grinning like a Cheshire cat as Victor put the last bullet in Gregor's head. When he turned, the hitman's face was contorted with rage and when he glanced at Sylvia, his expressions slowly softened.

Sylvia said calmly, "You know, we agreed that I'd be the one to do it but I'm not even mad you killed him. You have a soft spot for me, don't you, work hubby?"

He passed by her wordlessly. He didn't have to state the given that his affection for her was purely platonic and professional. Sylvia already knew it, but she just loved teasing Victor; he was such an easy target, much like Oswald was.

Sylvia sat in the passenger seat; Victor took the wheel.

"Where's the nearest pizza joint?" Victor asked, glancing at her.

"Three blocks down—and they have a parking lot," Sylvia added.

"Well, even if it didn't, it wouldn't matter to me. Unlike some people, I know how to parallel park," Victor stated nonchalantly.

"Keep talking—I will push you out of this car."

"I locked the doors."

"You _just_ watched me break a window," Sylvia said spiritedly. "And you think a _door_ will stop me?"

"Fair enough." Victor surrendered.

"Thank you."

As he started the car and drove down the street, Victor stated, "You suck at parking."

"Fuck you."

"Here, now?" Victor countered.

Sylvia rolled her eyes, and she and Victor shared a crude chuckle as he pulled out of the parking space and headed for the nearest pizza palace.


	7. Bridezilla

Chapter Seven: Bridezilla

* * *

As projected, Tiffany booked the church for the marvelous wedding while Gabe took care of the wedding invitations; all the staff would get one, as well as any others who had been placed on the list. Victor was the security consultant; the _real_ reason the invitations were being made was to make certain that no one would murder the bride or groom.

Victor and Sylvia visited store after store, and finding the 'perfect' dress was proving to be harder than was theorized. It wasn't Sylvia's doing; she'd agreed on every dress that had been placed at her feet by the store keepers.

As Victor denounced yet another dress and the staff stalked away to fetch another, Sylvia crossed her arms and wearily looked at the hitman.

"And you were worried that _I_ would be the Bridezilla," Sylvia said impatiently. "It's a good thing we went for pizza before this; I can't imagine what you're like when you're hungry."

"It's a wedding, Liv," Victor answered for the hundredth time as if this explained everything. "You're only going to be doing this once—you might as well put more thought into it."

Sylvia lowered her hands from their cross stance and smirked when Victor sat down on the bench; he appeared fumed that the staff were not doing their best to find the 'perfect' dress…or maybe, that was his resting bitch face. Either way, she had to admire how much thought Victor was putting into this occasion—and it wasn't even his.

She wondered how particular he'd be on his own wedding day.

"Did you ever do this kind of thing with Falcone?" asked Sylvia curiously; she stood precariously on the stool, looking at her white-glossed heels; before her was a long, standing mirror, twice her height. She wore black leggings and a white tank top.

"No," Victor answered.

"Ever go dress-shopping with his wife?"

"No," said Victor calmly. "She passed away long before I met her."

"That's a shame. Does Falcone have kids?" Sylvia asked.

"Why are you suddenly curious?" Victor responded suspiciously.

"Lower your guard, Victor. I just never was able to know Falcone like you do. You're the closest person to him," Sylvia said lightly. "I figured you might have learned a few fashionista tips from him—since you're being so damn picky."

Victor allowed himself a small smile, probably reminiscing a time where he and Falcone went suit-shopping and his obsessive need for perfection in both presentation and professionalism had annoyed even the most patient of gangsters at one time.

"You're not wrong," Victor stated after some time had passed.

"Not wrong about what?"

He didn't answer her, but his stony silence—however sentimental in value—was oddly satisfying. Sylvia looked at her appearance in the mirror.

Her hair had grown exceptionally in length. When she had met Oswald, she had short hair, chin-length. Now, it had grown to her back in waves, not necessarily curls. Her eyes still held the ocean-blues, but they became glossy when she considered an alternate universe in which she'd be shopping for dresses with her late mother.

Or at least, maybe her brother.

Jim knew shit about fashion. Aside from the tie and get-up that he always wore as a detective, Jim was as knowledgeable about fashion as the bum-leaking hobo sitting in the middle of the Narrows.

Oswald knew a great deal about it—but they were going by the book on the wedding. The groom couldn't see the dress until it was walking down the aisle with the bride wearing it.

"You're quiet," Victor noted, breaking Sylvia out of her crestfallen trance. "I thought I'd like your silence, but it's actually really unsettling."

"I'm fine."

" _Are_ you?"

Sylvia glanced at the reflection that belonged to Victor, noticing that his own was staring back at hers. He didn't look away, even as she allowed her soft expressions to harden.

"No." Sylvia admitted, and it surprised both of them.

Victor stood to his feet. Dressed in all black, he seemed to be a shadow standing behind her. Sylvia glanced at him, and then turned to peer at the real thing.

"I thought I'd be doing this with someone else," Sylvia said softly. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"No." Victor said flatly. "Should it?"

"You're telling me that seeing me in this" (Sylvia pointed to her skin-tight leggings and fitting tank-top that showed off her stomach and attractive assets) "doesn't make you uncomfortable?"

Smirking, Victor said, "I think you're very beautiful, Liv. And Penguin is one hell of a lucky man to see you in every way a man like myself would want to—but I'm not in any way attracted to you in any romantic form."

"Huh." Sylvia mused.

"Disappointed?"

"No. Relieved," Sylvia said softly. "It's quite refreshing, actually."

"I do like our back-and-forth between us, though," Victor said sneakily. "It makes things more interesting."

"The feeling is mutual." Sylvia agreed.

As they spoke, two women hurried into the room with two more white dresses. One was lacy, strapless; the other was more modest with long-sleeves, backless, and something from a Cinderella theme.

Victor held up the strapless, looking at it with narrowed eyes.

"I like this one," Sylvia said, picking up the other one. "Look—the sleeves go down to the hand; like some vampire queen theme." She placed it over her body, turning to the mirror, imagining herself in the dress. It just didn't quite work though.

"Maybe we're thinking about this wrong," Sylvia suggested. She turned to the ladies. "Let's try a black-and-white color scheme."

"But all the wedding dresses are white…." One of the ladies mumbled.

"Then go outside the realm of possibilities," Sylvia said sweetly.

They glanced at each other uncertainly but did as she requested, taking the dresses with them. Victor looked at her curiously.

"What are you thinking?"

"Black is for funerals, white is too…"

"Innocent?"

"Well, I was going to say 'bright'," Sylvia uttered, "but that too. Plus…I like black and white together."

"Why?"

"It reminds me of a penguin," Sylvia said.

"And you're trying to butter up the boss, aren't you?"

Sylvia shrugged saying, "Well, sure, but I also like penguins. They're cute and fluffy."

"Is that what attracted you to him in the first place?" Victor questioned in amusement.

Sylvia stepped off the stool, and Victor tilted his head forward to meet her eyes. She was substantially shorter than he; she was shorter than Penguin, for goodness sake. However, even with the height difference, he could feel the aura of confidence and power radiating from her.

"What do you think attracted me to him?" Sylvia asked.

"Other than his ambition for power…"

"That came after," Sylvia said softly. She sat on the stool while the women tittered and tattered over dresses in the shop; Victor sat on the bench, adjacent to her.

"I remember the day I realized I was in love with him," Sylvia said softly, smiling at Victor. "He and I were working for Fish Mooney, back when she was running the joint. When I first saw Oswald, I was outside, taking out the trash. Some of Mooney's boys were dishing out her discipline on some poor fool; they started making fun of Oswald, calling him names. 'Penguin' was one of them."

Victor chuckled, "You fell in love with him because they called him a penguin?"

"No." Sylvia said, grinning widely. "Not then. He came into the bar, started talking to me. He was angry after what they had done, and I told him—just in passing—that I like penguins, and they're my favorite animals. The way he looked at me after that, I knew something connected, I _knew_ something happened between us."

Victor sighed, "That is one of the cheesiest love-at-first-sight stories I have ever had the misfortune to hear."

"You're an asshole," Sylvia said, smiling at him. "You know that?"

"Better than anyone," Victor returned. "Where was your first date?"

"Carnival," Sylvia responded. "I wore a yellow sundress."

"Have you considered wearing _that_ at your wedding?" Victor questioned. "That was the first dress you wore when you dated; I figure it should be the last when you seal the deal."

Sylvia tilted her head curiously, looking at him.

"Victor Zsasz: cold-blooded hitman…secretly, a romantic." Sylvia teased quietly.

"Never said I wasn't romantic," Victor said, aloof.

"Hm. Fine then," Sylvia said smoothly. "You've convinced me. 'Yellow sundress', it is."

"Have you decided on the song for when you walk down the aisle?"

"No, should I?"

Victor sighed deeply, "You've not thought about _any_ of this, have you?"

"Honestly, no. With Jim being demoted and all this stuff happening with—"

"We're doing that now." Victor stated firmly, getting to his feet.

"Oh—okay, I didn't see my day ending like this but all right." Sylvia uttered, getting to her feet as well.

Victor headed out of the door and Sylvia followed him. Just as the door swung closed, the two women had come out of the closet with five differently patterned black-and-white dresses. No one had told them to stop.

Oppressed by the unappreciated effort, they threw the clothes in the air and closed the store for the day.


	8. A Visit To Arkham

Chapter Eight: A Visit to Arkham

* * *

Arkham Asylum. Just standing on the grounds of the same made Sylvia shiver…or perhaps it was the chilly wind.

Victor had a contract to take care of, and that was fine by her. She had an old friend to visit.

The hospital itself had an air of dread and looming sorrow. The walls were painted snowflake; the ceiling was tiled with the same glaring color. While Sylvia was not permitted to visit the cells, she doubted she would have done so without a second person with her. Even in the waiting room, she could hear the cries and screams of the inmates steadily losing or having already lost their minds. Another unpleasant tingle ran down her spine.

From what she understood, the director of Arkham had long been since replaced; the head of psychiatry had been killed by the escaped convict, Jack Gruber; luckily, the inmate had been caught (and killed in the process).

Before meeting her friend, Sylvia met with the director's replacement. It was a man with a white lab coat; he wore a pair of quirky, pink-tinted circular spectacles. His voice sounded like one, long syllable, sometimes elongating the vowels with a sarcastic croak; otherwise, he was monotonous. For a psychiatrist, there was oddly nothing soothing about his appearance, and his personality in general made Sylvia's skin crawl.

They sat alone in his office prior to Sylvia speaking with one of his inmates.

"Your brother used to work for the former director," said Dr. Strange, smiling plainly at Sylvia, who sat opposite of him. "James Gordon, right?"

"Yes."

"And your name is…Sylvia."

"Correct." Sylvia returned politely.

"And who is it that you're visiting, may I ask?"

"Barbara Kean."

"She was your brother's fiancé."

"Also correct."

"Should I be worried?"

Sylvia scowled, finding his faux concern more annoying that reassuring. He had become desensitized to the screams of the suffering and the cries of the repressed rage belonging to those of his precious 'patients'. If the man was worried about anything, it was of his own safety should his patients decide to exact revenge for their 'therapy'.

She had no evidence of his false concern or the torture from which his patients suffered, but Sylvia had started trusting her gut instinct shortly after Oswald returned to her from the grave. And her gut cried 'fake asshole' so loudly, Sylvia was a bit surprised that Hugo Strange didn't hear it himself.

Seeing the observant pair of eyes peering through the glasses, Sylvia was thankful he couldn't.

"Barbara Kean was my friend before she was detained." Sylvia explained kindly. "The break-up between her and my brother means less than nothing to me."

"That's interesting," said Dr. Strange, smirking at her. "You don't sound as though you're close to your brother."

"Our relationship is complicated."

"Your family sounds dysfunctional."

"Aren't they all?" Sylvia replied coolly. "My point is that I have no ill intentions towards Barbara Kean. I just want to talk to her."

"Is it about what happened with her parents?"

"No," Sylvia denied. "I already know what happened to her parents."

Strange gesticulated to her, "Please, tell me what you know."

"Is this to prove that I'm not lying to you?"

"What a suspicious mindset, you have!" Strange exclaimed, amused. "Do _you_ believe that I think you're lying to me?"

"No," said Sylvia, folding her arms across her chest. "I think you're psychoanalyzing me. Not to damage your psychoanalytical profiling, but I grew up with a lawyer for a father and a detective wanna-be for a brother: I've learned to nurture a natural suspicion for people in general."

"You're a smart girl, Miss Gordon," said Strange with a stranger smile.

"And you've proven to be a smart man," said Sylvia shifting in her seat. "You like to play mind games."

Strange snorted, "Right, you are, Miss Gordon. I _love_ playing mind games. It's the only way to pass the time, I'm afraid…You seem to offer no threat to my patients."

"That's good to hear."

"So, let's go over the rules, shall we?"

It was Sylvia's turn to gesture towards him, saying calmly, "By your lead."

"Very well. You'll be talking to Miss Kean behind a glass window—this window is impenetrable, bullet-proof. I'd advise trying to break it, lest you want twenty of my guards to taser you." Strange stated stoically. "Do not hand Miss Kean anything—paper, pencil, not even a paper clip. Convicts who long to escape are very creative, even in a habitat that offers no escape what so ever."

"'Convicts'." Sylvia repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Don't you mean 'patients'?"

"They're convicts in the eyes of the law, my dear," Strange said kindly. "I'm referring to them as such to emphasize the dire consequences that will follow if you don't abide by these rules."

"Fine."

"I'm surprised that the word 'convict' upsets you," Strange said as he glanced down at a stack of papers, tidying them up. "Considering the fact that _you_ are about to be **married** to one. Or at least, that's the word around Gotham these days."

"The word 'convict' doesn't upset me, doctor," Sylvia responded. "And, for what it's worth, Oswald Cobblepot has never been convicted of a crime. He hasn't even seen the inside of a court room."

"So quick to come to your betrothed's defense, aren't we?" Strange admired with a sly little smile. "Does Mr. Cobblepot provoke a protective urge of yours?"

Sylvia's eyes narrowed at him.

"He certainly brings out a maternal instinct, I can see that much." Strange continued, his smile widening.

Sylvia scoffed, "Why would you say that?"

"You're quick to defend him—regardless of what he's done."

"I call it 'being a friend'."

"You're his lover, not his friend."

"I'm both, so even better," Sylvia said.

"Do you find yourself having the urge to coddle him when he's having a bad day?" Strange asked curiously. "When people contest him, are you quick to temper, to protect?"

"You're psychoanalyzing again, doctor," Sylvia said, ignoring his questions. "It's getting a little invasive."

"Or maybe," he suggested, "you don't want to acknowledge the answer?"

Sylvia laughed. It made Strange tilt his head like he wasn't certain why she had laughed in the first place. She leaned towards him, her hands spread out on the desk like she might attack him, and she flashed a hard smile.

"'He brings out a maternal instinct'—seriously, is that the _best_ you can come up with? I'll give something better: he brings a _lot_ of maternal instincts to the surface, _Doctor_ Strange. Do you know what that's called, hm? It's a 'mommy kink'. In fact, it brings me _great_ pleasure to coddle him, to nurture and protect him. You're trying to twist it and make it sound perverse—good on you, doc—I hope it adds to your _valuable_ research."

She sat back, exhaling deeply before she forced a smile.

"Are we done?" Sylvia questioned.

"So quick to defend him," Strange murmured smugly (like he hadn't even heard her!) "But we _both_ know what he's doing as we speak, don't we? Being Gotham's Kingpin takes a great amount of mental strength, _emotional_ strength."

"Meaning?"

"I see a marriage doomed to fail when such stress is placed upon it," Strange said softly. "Do you have the same mental, emotional strength as he?"

Sylvia clutched the arms of the chair and narrowed her eyes at him.

"You're starting to vex me, Doctor."

"I can tell." Strange said smoothly. "But we _just_ discussed how much I like mind games, didn't we? Anyway…the next rule: if you want to give something to the inmate, please check with the orderlies. They will be the go-between the two of you. Preferably, give her nothing—not even a telephone."

"I got it," Sylvia clipped. " _Anything else_?"

Strange leaned back in his chair, asking, "How does your brother feel about all of this, hm?"

"You're pretty nosy—even for a therapist."

"I'm a psychiatrist—that's different."

"Not really," Sylvia pointed out. "You give meds—psychologists provide talk therapy. Perhaps you should be a therapist—you do a great deal of talking."

"How very interesting."

" _Is_ it?" Sylvia questioned coolly. " _Please_ tell me the other rules so I can speak with whom I came to here to talk in the first place."

"Temper, temper," Strange taunted.

" **Boy** , you don't even want to _know_!" Sylvia snapped, getting to her feet suddenly.

"You're wrong. I _do_ want to know." Strange said excitedly, leaning forward. "You'd be a beautiful creature to study…"

"Are we finished?" Sylvia demanded.

"One more rule, just so you're aware."

" **Yes**?"

"Don't touch the inmate."

"Noted. Are we done now?"

"We are. Be tender with Miss Kean."

"I will. Don't worry."

"Oh, I'm not worried," Strange mused. "See you around…Mrs. Cobblepot."

Sylvia clicked her tongue as she closed the office door, rolling her eyes so far in the back of her head, she was certain they might pop out through the nape of her neck.

And she thought _Jim_ was insufferable!

* * *

The door opened after an ear-screeching alarm sounded off. It was the sound of the door being unlocked by the mechanisms surrounding the iron room. Inside were two steel chairs, grounded by the legs. Dividing them was a table, made from the same polished metal. The air itself was cool, but after the irritating conversation with Strange, Sylvia welcomed the air-conditioning, shrugging off her black sweater and allowing it to fall carelessly on the floor.

Sitting in the other chair was Barbara Kean, wearing a dress with slate grey and white stripes; she wore a number, for all she was in this place was that: a number. One more criminal behind bars, another crazy person in the nuthouse.

Her wrists were cuffed, the metal bracelets padded on the inside with flimsy cotton. She could only move them about three inches in any direction; otherwise, she was immobile.

The last time Sylvia had seen Barbara, she looked like a totally different person. Smooth, finely straightened long blonde hair, soft skin, eyes so beautiful that she had intimidated Sylvia upon first impression; and she always wore the best clothes; it aligned with her expensive tastes.

And now, here was the different Barbara…perhaps the _real_ Barbara Kean that had been nutted inside the shell of an innocent woman all these years: Her hair was a curly mess, and the sneer that greeted Sylvia was definitely real.

"Hey, girlfriend," Barbara greeted when Sylvia had sat down. "Long time, no see."

"They said I could visit for an hour or two," Sylvia said. "I'm guessing you don't get many visitors?"

"You're the only one. Took you long enough, didn't it?"

"Well, Barb. You said you didn't want to see me anymore," Sylvia reminded calmly. "You couldn't be friends with your ex-fiancé's sister because that would have made things harder. Remember that conversation?"

Barbara chuckled, leaning back in her seat, lifting on leg over the other: "It's starting to come back to me. So, _you_ look good."

"Thanks. You too."

"Oh, you, kidder," Barbara snickered; then quite abruptly, "How's Jim?"

Sylvia answered flatly, "He's fine."

"Is he still with that doctor bitch?"

"Yes." Sylvia answered calmly. "And she's not a bitch."

Barbara sneered, "Oh, _good_ , so now you're on **his** side?"

"I'm not on anyone's side," Sylvia said, raising her hands in surrender. "Never have been."

"Did you come to talk to me about my parents?"

"No."

"Well, I—" Barbara began, but hearing Sylvia's response, she stumbled over her words and stared at her incredulously. "You're not?"

"No," Sylvia repeated. "But if you want to discuss them, that's fine by me. I never liked them anyway."

Vehemently, Barbara growled, "They deserved to die."

"I agree."

Barbara grinned again: "How'd you even _get_ in here? The doctors can't think this will help my therapy any."

"I didn't tell them what I came here to talk to you about." Sylvia explained. "A friend visiting a friend—that's all I am to them."

"So why _are_ you here?"

"Because you're my _friend_. And I know you're currently incapacitated to do so, but I wanted to personally invite you to my wedding." Sylvia said softly. "I can't give you the invitation—they'd probably throw it away, anyway—but this is what it looks like." (She pulled the invitation card out of her capris pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the table.) "It's taking place on February 24th."

"That's tomorrow," Barbara noted. She said happily, "This is some _nice_ calligraphy. Who did it?"

"No one you know," Sylvia answered. "I'm inviting a few people. You'd be invited if you were allowed to come, but I have feeling these people" (She shot an icy glare at the cameras) "won't allow that."

"How touching," Barbara taunted. "Well, I'd _love_ to, but as you said—I'm currently ill-disposed. But thanks for the thought. So, let me ask you something."

"Sure," said Sylvia as she placed the invitation back in her pocket.

"Do you like Lee?"

"She's fine."

"Do you like her better than me?" Barbara questioned, her eyebrows lowering with dark expectations.

"If I said I preferred you over her," said Sylvia pointedly "would you believe me?"

"Maybe."

"I like you better than her."

"I find that hard to believe." Barbara chirped.

Sylvia and Barbara exchanged a wise-cracking grin; Barbara's eyes squinted with an inner glow. A silence passed between them during which they silently snickered. The banter had brought up fun times, reminisce, but it died naturally as Barbara fidgeted with her hands, picking at her fingernails.

"Do you feel any different?" Sylvia asked.

"About?"

"You killed your parents. You have to be feeling _something_."

"I feel nothing about it. Does that scare you?"

"Not at all," said Sylvia, reclining back in her seat. "It can be freeing…"

"How would you know anything about that?" Barbara questioned.

Sylvia rested her chin on her hand, smirking at her.

"We have more in common than you know, Barb," Sylvia told her softly. "I mean, you know what I've done as a kid. Do you _really_ think for a moment that Jim being a cop has ever stopped me from doing what I want?"

Barbara looked at her indifferently. Then the gears turned and clicked into place. Barbara grinned mischievously.

"You _do_ know what it feels like, don't you?" Barbara whispered.

"I won't implicate myself," said Sylvia secretly. "But…" She winked at her and mouthed 'yeah'.

"You're _bad_ ," Barbara praised, smirking at her. "Does Jim know?"

"He only knows what I tell him," said Sylvia, shrugging. "So…no."

Barbara giggled, "You're so awesome, Vee! I _knew_ there was a reason I liked you!"

Sylvia shrugged modestly saying, "How's the life in here?"

"Boring," Barbara answered flatly, her eyes flickering up at the ceiling.

"Maybe you'll get out soon."

"Maybe. Hey, do you have a phone on you?" Barbara asked curiously.

"No. They had me put everything outside." Sylvia returned. "Why do you need a phone?"

Slyly, she answered, "No reason."

"Barbara."

"Yeah, Vee?"

"I really do miss you," Sylvia confided, smiling at her sadly.

"You know you look just like Jim when you're being sincere?" Barbara asked; she held out her hand.

Sylvia took it and Barbara squeezed. Sylvia smiled at her; the inmate returned it.

"I miss you too," Barbara said quietly.

"See you around," Sylvia promised.

"Send me a picture of that marvelous wedding! I _do_ love seeing you in dresses!" Barbara called as Sylvia stood and started heading out the door.

"Will do!" Sylvia returned, waving at her.

She left the room and was approached by one of the orderlies. He was a big man, stocky.

"You forgot the rules," he said gruffly. " 'No touching the inmate'."

Sylvia shrugged saying, "Must've slipped my mind."

She moved past him, and he watched her resentfully.


	9. The Day Before

Chapter Nine: The Day Before

* * *

Author's Note/Disclaimer: So, as we dive into this chapter, I'll leave a happy reminder that this story (like the last two) _does_ follow _Gotham_ 's timeline and therefore, there **are** scenes that are strictly taken from the series (in this case, Season 2). But because this is also a fanfic, my OC will naturally spark things up and things may change. So, as you read this, please keep in mind that familiar scenes read that sound like they're in _Gotham_ , probably are as they're written, but also that Sylvia is _my_ OC (there is none like her). Long story short: If it sounds like it's in Gotham, it is, and if it's not, it's my subplot. There ya go 😊 Enjoy!

* * *

Sylvia chopped tomatoes and garnishes on the kitchen counter, helping out the servants' head of staff, Mr. Bell. Mr. Bell was French in his own right, but he had an American accent; his whole name was Jolie Belchexivereau (pronounced Belk-EYE-Veh-Row), but seeing as that was a mouthful, he permitted people to call him 'Mr. Bell' or _Monsieur_ Bell, if one insisted; it made him more American and it saved countless of hours of mispronunciation.

As the servants' head of the Falcone Mansion (now dubbed the Cobblepot Mansion), Mr. Bell was in charge of overseeing all of his staff's duties, to include but not limited to cleaning, cooking, greeting the many people that would come in and out of the large humble abode, and reconciling any of the oversights that might be caused by the cooks, maids, or butlers. He and the servants shared a chalet just behind the mansion that fit every three people to a room; the Falcones had taken care of them very well, and the same treatment was given generously by Oswald.

Mr. Bell was a large man, but not to be mistaken for obese. He was big-boned; his family had commonly been mistaken for giants back 'in the days of old' (as he called it). He regularly ate salads, and even kept a high exercise regime which he normally completed before the day's shift began (around 8 AM) that consisted of regular cardio and aggressive strength training.

He was the most well-dressed of his staff with ironed lapels of his white-and-black suit, and carried a lint brush in one pocket; a comb, in the other (the latter was a joke as he didn't have any hair). His shoes were shiny, always polished as though he did them the day before (one couldn't rule this out as a possibility), and if he saw something go amiss (a smudge on a fork, for example), he was quick to apologize and rectify the mistake. At the ripe age of 45, he was probably one of the most charming men that Sylvia had the pleasure of meeting, running second to Oswald Cobblepot.

It was after much insistence on Sylvia's part that he finally resigned to letting her help him prepare and prep the steak sautéed in Turkish gravy, and the appetizers of chopped salad and finger sandwiches. Dessert, he said, was a planned recipe for a cranberry crumble.

"What's _your_ story, Monsieur Bell?" Sylvia asked, glancing at the man who had been humming a delightfully pleasant tune as he covered the raw steak in the creamy gravy.

"My story is a bore," he said, tittering softly. "I'd much prefer to hear yours."

"I don't have a story."

"You're the daughter of a famous District Attorney, and James Gordon's sister—and you're marrying Gotham's Kingpin. And you dare to tell me you haven't a story to tell?" Mr. Bell exclaimed dramatically, placing a white-gloved hand over his chest where his heart would be. "You must be kidding!"

Sylvia smiled modestly, saying, "You certainly know how to embellish things."

Mr. Bell quirked a smile at her: "I hear you've finished the finer details of the wedding? Is that true?"

"Nearly."

"Nearly true or nearly done?"

"Both?" Sylvia said uncertainly. She smiled, adding, "I anticipate it will all go well, but I doubt it'll go the way I want it to."

"What would be the hiccough?"

She started slicing the carrots for the stew, the knife sawed smoothly through the vegetable like it was melted butter. _Slice…slice…slice…_ It was hypnotic, the sound alone.

"Jim says he'll come," Sylvia said calmly.

"And you think he won't?"

"I think he will."

"Then you should be thrilled."

 _Slice…slice…_

"I should be," said Sylvia softly. "I'm trying not to put so much hope in the idea that he'll actually do what he says."

 _Slice…slice…slice…_

"Well, then. If that's the case, would it be so bad if he didn't?" Mr. Bell inquired lightly. He approached her, placing a hand on the countertop within a good safe distance from Sylvia's chopping circle. "His presence seems to warrant a great deal of drama that has no place during a wedding."

"I don't care," said Sylvia, glancing at Mr. Bell. "He's my _brother_. It's my _wedding_. He should be there for it—He says he'll give me away, walk me down the aisle…to Oswald. If that's not a step in the right direction, I don't know what is."

"This wedding isn't just about you and Master Cobblepot becoming one, is it, Miss Sylvia?" Mr. Bell inquired knowingly.

 _Slice…slice, slice…slice…_

"You're perceptive, Mr. Bell. And you're right: it's more than that," Sylvia admitted, nodding. "If Jim comes to the wedding, it means that we can put this whole mess that we've been dealing with behind us. It's a new beginning, for all of us. I want it more than anything."

"I should be so bold to say that it sounds like this brother of yours has disappointed you at _every_ turn," Mr. Bell said cautiously. "Perhaps, you _are_ putting a lot of hope in this one-time event? For him to prove himself that he isn't entirely heartless?"

Sylvia placed the knife sharply on the counter, glowering at Mr. Bell.

"I never said he was 'heartless'. And he hasn't disappointed me at _every_ turn," Sylvia said harshly. "He's come through a couple times…he's a cop—he has a job to do, much like the rest of us. I can't expect him to be at my every beck and call—that's abominable, and…and it's unfair to him."

"Who are you trying to convince, malady?" Mr. Bell asked gently. "Me, or you? It sounds like you've rehearsed that entire conversation in your head multiple times."

"More than I care to admit," Sylvia muttered, returning back to the carrots.

"By all means, I did not mean to offend. I just worry…for your happiness," Mr. Bell reassured quickly, his hands held up, palms facing her.

"'Happiness'?" Sylvia recited the word like it was strange and unfamiliar. "Do you know what my happiness would include, Monsieur Bell?"

Mr. Bell lowered his hands, a silent invitation for her to confide in him.

"Happiness," she said, "would be for me to have my wedding, to walk down the aisle with my brother. He'd hold my hand, and when we arrived at the altar, he'd kiss the back, and then give me away to Oswald. He'd be happy, and stand on my side of the altar—no arguments to be had. It would be perfect. When the ceremony is over, and when Oswald and I have said our 'I do's, he will dance with me during the first song while Oswald and our guests happily looked on. He would tell me 'I've never seen you look happier', and together, we would dance—as brother and the newly wed, Mrs. Cobblepot."

She smiled at the carrots on her cutting board; she dreamt of that moment many times. It almost seemed real, but now, it was just out of reach. Sylvia smiled sentimentally at Mr. Bell, who mirrored her in the same hopeful way.

"And you think it will work out this way?" Mr. Bell assumed softly, unable to hide the small smile after hearing the longing in her voice.

"I do," Sylvia whispered. "I hope it does. It would be just _perfect_."

"For your happiness, malady, I hope it does happen, then." Mr. Bell said sincerely. "Now, let's finish prepping these vegetables—they're not going to sauté themselves, now will they!"

He nudged her playfully in the rib with his elbow, winking at her, and they continued to slice and dice away.

Already exhausted from today's window-shopping with Victor, dealing with Gregor, the interrogative mental battle with Strange, and the back-and-forth with Barbara, Sylvia was ready to end the day; but the meal prep was for tomorrow's reception. The whole meal took an allotted 24-hours to prep, while the actual cooking would only take an hour, at best. The staff would be working on it just as Sylvia and Oswald said their 'I-do's and the Mansion was where the reception was being held.

Mr. Bell and Sylvia finished the prepping; after, he insisted that she break from the kitchen as he prepared tonight's meal, and he'd call them when it was finished.

"Are you sure?" Sylvia asked steadily.

"You're _tired_ , Miss Sylvia. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow and I _refuse_ for you to spend your last night as a Gordon with **me** of all people!"

Just as Sylvia resigned to allow Mr. Bell to have his way, she and the Head of the Staff both turned their heads when Oswald came strolling into the kitchen, cane in hand, accompanied by Victor, who politely smiled at her.

"Where are you two heading off to?" Sylvia asked curiously (Mr. Bell appeared just as befuddled).

"We're going to pay Commissioner Loeb a little visit," said Victor, grinning broadly.

"Why…did Jim…" Sylvia stopped herself, then smiled kindly at Mr. Bell. "Would you excuse us?"

"Of course." Mr. Bell said, clearing his throat, and then bowed out of the room.

Sylvia turned to Oswald.

"Did Jim go to Barker?"

"Obviously," Oswald said, gesturing to Victor. "He did his part; it's time to do ours."

"You're going to Loeb tonight?" Sylvia inquired incredulously.

"I'd have given you a day's notice, but you've seemed preoccupied," Oswald stated coolly. "How was the visit at Arkham?"

"Drab," she answered simply. "Are you going to his house?"

"Of course," said Victor, still grinning. "We thought we'd ask if you'd like to come along—seeing as how the same man sicced the Ogre on your brother."

Oswald glanced at Victor, before looking at Sylvia expectantly.

"Sure," said Sylvia. "I'd love to come along."

Oswald held up a hand, saying quickly, "You're not killing anyone."

"Fine by me," Sylvia returned, holding a hand up in a promise. "I'm too tired to kill people anyway. Talking to a psychiatrist is physically _draining_."

"Why were you talking to a psychiatrist?" Oswald asked, concerned.

" **Let's** _**go**_!" Victor snapped impatiently through gritted teeth.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows at him in surprise; Oswald gestured for her to go on ahead of him. She beamed and, with a bounce in her step, she sauntered down the long corridor, not before stopping and letting Mr. Bell know that the vegetables and roast were all prepped to go into the refrigerator for tomorrow's big event.

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning cracked through the sky, the thunder echoed not too far behind. It hadn't started raining yet, but Sylvia suspected that it would. The sun never seemed to shine for too long in Gotham; and the clouds were adamant to cover the full moon in the sky.

Getting into Commissioner Loeb's house was easy. Two guards were posted outside. Sitting in the car, Victor sat in the driver's seat; Oswald, in the passenger side, while Sylvia occupied the back.

"If we sit here long enough, the guards will notice us," Sylvia said calmly.

"Be patient," Oswald said dismissively. Business-like, he turned to Victor: "Are you ready?"

"I've _been_ ready," Victor reassured, his grin was as wide as the horizon. "I'll get both of them; they make really easy targets."

"You're killing them?" Sylvia asked curiously.

"Why not," said Victor as he checked his babies in their holsters. "As complacent as they're standing, they deserve to die."

"That's right," Sylvia teased, "give them a 'talking-to'. A pocketful of dreams, a bullet in the eyes. _That'll_ teach them."

"Has anyone ever told you that you overuse sarcasm?" Victor asked poignantly.

"Has anyone ever told you that you don't use it enough?" Sylvia remarked smartly.

"Will the _both_ of you be quiet?" Oswald chastised, glancing behind him at both Sylvia and Victor respectively.

"It's all in fun, Boss," said Victor. "Trust me. If we had a disagreement, _she'd_ let you know."

"Fuck you, Victor."

"Right after you, malady."

Oswald let out an exasperated sigh, and smacked the dashboard as a registered warning for them to quiet themselves. He then glanced at Victor.

"Go." Oswald ordered.

"Don't mind if I do!" Victor happily responded, getting out of the driver's seat and taking out both of his babies, ready to fire away as he pleased.

Sylvia made a point to get out of the back, but Oswald leaned back and grabbed her wrist.

"Not yet." He said sternly.

Sylvia opened her mouth to object, but Oswald wasn't watching _her._ He watched Victor, making certain that it was safe for the object of his desire to leave the safety of the car once the two guards had been disposed of. Sylvia detected that slightest possessive trait, inwardly grinning when he didn't let her go until the sound of two shots being fired echoed past the door.

Oswald stepped out of the car, followed shortly by Sylvia. She kept his pace, walking with her hands folded contentedly behind her back. When they entered through the back door, Sylvia and Oswald casually glanced at Victor, who was busy cutting one of the guard's heads off its shoulders.

"Isn't that overkill?" Sylvia asked flatly.

"You're just jealous."

"No denial there," Sylvia muttered, glaring enviously at him. "You're getting all the fun today."

"I thought you took care of Gregor," Oswald reminded.

" _He_ took care of Gregor," Sylvia corrected hastily, pointing at Victor. "Nailed his knees, shot him in the head. I didn't get to enjoy any of it. So, really, you owe me a body."

Oswald rolled his eyes saying, "Victor, if another guard comes up to defend the Commissioner, let Sylvia do the honors, please?"

Victor said pointedly, "By all means."

Just as they spoke, a man appeared from the darkness, shouting, "Who's there!"

Sylvia sprinted towards the voice, jumped onto the man, and wrapped her legs around the unexpected victim's throat. She brought him down the floor, and with a vice-like grip of her hands on each side of his jaw, she quickly turned it so his neck snapped—this all happened before Oswald and Victor even noticed the third guard's presence.

" _Damn_ ," Victor exclaimed, grinning widely. "You've got _moves._ Where'd you learn to move like that?"

Sylvia gathered herself to her feet, smirking: "You know Mr. Bell from the kitchen?"

"The cook?"

"Yep—he can be a pretty good trainer, knows a thing or two about martial arts."

"Surprising, and a _little_ disturbing," Victor pointed out; he glanced at Oswald, who was still staring at Sylvia with both admiration and equal surprise.

He had nothing to say, although the small little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth said a few things all on its own. He walked into the kitchen.

The three of them had skipped out on what could have been a very nourishing dinner cooked by Mr. Bell. Now, they would make their own light meal from whatever Loeb had in the cabinets. There wasn't much—and Sylvia found that to be the most surprising thing about Loeb's furnishings.

"It's fucking dark in here," Sylvia mumbled as she sat on the counter.

The lightning flashed through the glass window, offering some light for only a few seconds before the darkness swallowed them whole once more.

"You should be used to moving around in the dark, Pigeon," Oswald pointed out.

"Mm-hmm, and you shouldn't sound so condescending," Sylvia returned smartly.

"I wasn't condescending."

"You weren't complaining last night either, so keep your scorn at a minimum."

Oswald and Sylvia exchanged meaningful glances, both unable to hide their smiles while Victor rolled his eyes. Why did he feel like he was a constant third wheel in their operations? Perhaps he was, and he chose to look at it as being a guardian or chaperone—goodness knows what Sylvia had in mind to do to his boss if they'd been left alone in a stranger's kitchen in the dark.

The thought made him roll his eyes again.

"He doesn't even know we're here," Sylvia stated. "We should at least make a little noise."

"She has a point, Boss."

"I don't—" Oswald began, but Sylvia and Victor ignored him and they both gathered pots and pants from the cabinets beneath the sink and raucously banged them together, whooping and hollering.

Oswald turned and bowed over the sink, closing his eyes as he made a scathing noise. 'Why did he choose to bring _both_ of them along?' He wondered. Sylvia and Victor acted like _children_ when they were together.

"Would you _stop_!" Oswald snapped, irately glancing between them. "You're giving me a headache."

"Aww," Sylvia cooed (Victor threw the pots in the cabinet, looking disappointed.).

Ignoring them, Victor mozied on over to the hallway, checking out the other closets and closed cabinets. Oswald turned around when Sylvia rubbed his right shoulder, and she stood prominently in front of him; her body pressed against his. Heat radiated from her and made him feel uncomfortably hot and bothered.

"Not here," Oswald told her, brushing her hands from his chest.

"All business with you, huh?" Sylvia taunted. "Would Loeb finding you in his kitchen making out with me embarrass you?"

"Yes, it would," Oswald answered honestly.

"We're going to kill him anyway, right?"

"Not if he does what I want," Oswald told her. "Murder can't always be on your mind, Pigeon."

"It's not," Sylvia said innocently. "I also think about having sex with you every minute of every day."

Oswald sighed in resignation as Sylvia approached him once more, her hands playing with his collar.

"I'm thinking of it right now, actually." Sylvia whispered.

"You're insatiable." Oswald stated quietly.

She leaned into him, her tongue licking his earlobe as she breathed, "Yep, and right now, I'm horny as fuck."

"Someone needs another lesson…in self- _control_ ," Oswald said with an attempt of sounding stern, but when her hand grabbed him through his pants, he stammered through it.

"I liked the lesson. May I have another?" Sylvia purred.

Oswald took her hands and moved them away from where he admittedly still needed her. But it wasn't time for intimacy; this was something that needed to be done without joking or horse-playing. Sylvia raised her eyebrows quickly with some indifference, but she lowered her hands obediently to her side.

"I can't help myself," Sylvia muttered.

"I know, Pigeon. And you know what it does to me when you talk like that. But not here, not now. We have business to tend to," Oswald told her sincerely.

Victor snorted from the hallway, "He has dolphin figurines!"

Sylvia darted from the kitchen to the hallway to check out these said figurines while Oswald found the bread cupboard, lifted the door, and was satisfied to find a half-loaf of bread sitting there. He took it out, and started searching for a jar of peanut butter.

"How'd you cut the head off so easily?" Sylvia asked, looking down at the guard. "Do you have a knife that cuts through bone?"

"Yes."

"Can I have it?"

"No!" Victor quickly denied. "Get your own!"

"I want yours!"

"You know, taken out of context, this would sound _really_ bad." Victor uttered with a hint of amusement.

"In your fucking dreams," Sylvia said as she shook her head.

Sylvia knelt down, admiring the hitman's handiwork. Victor stepped forward, minding her figure.

"Hi!" Victor greeted.

Sylvia glanced up from her squat, slowly straightening as she looked upon a robed Commissioner Loeb, whose eyes confusedly darted between her and Victor; he looked enraged when he first saw Sylvia, and became more terrified when he saw the man standing in front of her.

Oswald glanced behind and happily smiled at Loeb, asking, "Do you have any peanut butter?"

"What?" Loeb questioned, suddenly annoyed.

Oswald leaned forward, flicked the switch, and a burst of dim sunshine filled the kitchen. Sylvia smirked when Loeb looked a little more intimidated, realizing that he stood in front of Gotham's own kingpin.

"Peanut butter," Oswald repeated. "Smooth, for preference."

No answer; Loeb looked around uncomfortably, saying, "Guards! Help! _Help_!"

Victor knelt down, picked up the very head that Sylvia was admiring. He showed his ventriloquist skills (or lack of) as he imitated the goon's voice, saying, "Oh, hey, boss! How 'bout a bottle of beer!"

Sylvia, Oswald, and Victor laughed, while Loeb looked increasingly intimidated. Victor stepped towards the counters, and the head flopped into the sink with a 'thud'. Sylvia prowled past him and then hopped onto the counter, sitting adjacent to where Oswald currently stood. Oswald looked at her once-over, acknowledging the uncomfortably pleasing fact that the same heat she'd radiated now seemed completely invested in him. He made a note to ignore it as best he could…for now.

Sylvia reached up behind her and smirked when she found the peanut butter, handing it to Oswald who thanked her politely before slathering a piece of bread with it.

"Let me share a dilemma with you," said Oswald, turning to Loeb. "May I?"

Loeb had nothing to say, of course. He was too terrified to even move from where he was standing. Taking his stoned silence as a 'yes', Oswald turned in the corner.

"I need you to do something for me that I know you won't want to do," Oswald informed.

Hesitant, but bold, Loeb said, "What is it?"

"With most people, there's no problem," Oswald continued, ignoring him. "I find their weak spots and use either violence or blackmail to persuade them. But _you_ " (Loeb glanced uneasily at Victor then at him) "you are a man of _monkish_ virtue. You have no vices to expose, so threats of personal violence will only strength your resolve, huh?"

"No, that—" Loeb began to protest, but he was stiffened into silence when Oswald took a plastic bowl and threw it sharply on the counter, making Loeb flinch.

Sylvia grinned, seeing him so scared. It was _delicious_.

"Come, sir, don't be modest," Oswald taunted. "You are a rare animal."

Loeb glanced at Sylvia, disheartened and humiliated that she was able to see this side of him, but he couldn't say anything lest it provoked her fiancé to lash out. Whatever request the Penguin had to make of him, he seemed willing to accommodate—he mustn't lose this small sliver of a chance just to insult the sister of the man that was most responsible and likely for having put him in this situation in the first place!

Steadily, Victor advanced towards Loeb. It was hard for the Commissioner to keep a tab on Sylvia and Oswald while still keeping close an eye on the man that would most likely bring about his demise. It was a scare tactic that was working very well!

"But that does lead us to a sad pickle," Oswald continued with feigned disappointment. "Since I can't persuade you to do as I ask, the only rational option left would be to kill you and then negotiate with whomever takes your place as Commissioner."

That said, Victor nimbly pulled out the gun holstered on his right and said eagerly, "Now, Chief?"

"Just one moment, Victor," Oswald said sincerely. "The Commissioner needs time to process this—say a prayer, or what have you."

Loeb said with forced calm (that was bordering the line of fear): "What do you want me to do?"

"It's not worth talking about. _You_ wouldn't do it."

"Tell me," Loeb all but growled, in an attempt to hide his obvious terror.

Sylvia attempted to suppress a giggle, grinning widely at Loeb's predicament. Too bad she hadn't brought a tape recorder with her; this would have been an excellent gift for her brother's birthday!

As a point to make, Oswald straightened and said matter-of-factually, "I need my friend, Jim Gordon, reinstated as a detective."

Immediately, Loeb exhaled disgustedly through his nose, grimacing.

Oswald snickered, "See! I told you, you hate that idea" as he came back to the corner of the kitchen counters while Sylvia and Victor glanced at one another with the same satisfaction.

"No!" Loeb insisted. "I'll do it!"

"Mm-mm! I can tell you're not sincere," Oswald stated calmly. "Even if you do as I ask now, someday down the line, you'll change your mind, and turn on him again." He winked at Sylvia, saying, "And we can't have that happening…can we?"

"Not at all." Sylvia agreed, grinning wickedly at Loeb.

Victor cocked the gun, bringing Sylvia and Loeb's attention to him.

With his impatience subsided and more or less, being bored, Victor said flatly, "Do you want me to kill him _now_?"

"No," said Oswald sarcastically. "Make him a nice cheese toastie—yes, kill him now, please!"

"Just trying to be clear," said Victor cynically as he stepped towards Loeb, and aimed the gun at him.

"No! Wait!" Loeb shouted. "Let's talk about this!"

"Sorry," said Oswald. "Least worst option."

Victor caressed his index finger over the trigger; Loeb began to shake, and Sylvia's eyes brightened with anticipation.

"Unless, of course…" Oswald began, making Loeb looked at him desperately. "No…no, you'd never agree!"

"WHAT?" Loeb shouted helplessly. "AGREE TO WHAT?"

Oswald smirked at him, and glanced at Victor who wordlessly lowered the gun as though obeying a nonverbal order. Sylvia sighed, glaring at Oswald.

"You're going to let him _live_?" Sylvia questioned, disheartened. "That's fucking anticlimactic, babe."

"Does _Gordon_ know you're here?" Loeb said breathlessly, glaring at Sylvia.

"He doesn't," said Sylvia. "But you, _Commissioner_ , are on my ever-lasting shit list for what you've done to him. I was hoping you'd die tonight, but…" She glowered at Oswald unhappily; Oswald tilted his head forward, his stern gaze meeting hers.

Victor smirked when Sylvia contemplated doing the obvious as she narrowed her eyes at Loeb before hopping off the counter. She passed by him, making a point to shove her shoulder roughly against his so he nearly stumbled over.

"You'll have to forgive her," Oswald said coolly. "She has these temper tantrums…"

"Remind you of anyone?" Victor said darkly, grinning at Loeb.

"It…it does," said Loeb quietly. "Now that you mention it, I think I prefer Gordon."

"Which one?" Victor teased, smirking.

Loeb looked as though he might curse, but instead, he lowered his gaze and said to Oswald, "What do you want from me?"

"You're going to retire," Oswald said patiently. "You will have a ceremony, go out with a 'bang', if you will. Either way, you will leave your position for someone who will—without a doubt—reinstate James Gordon to the rank of detective."

"Essen," Sylvia piped up from the hallway, hidden from view. "She likes Jim!"

Loeb glowered in that direction.

Peeping from the said hallway, Sylvia offered, "It's either her or Harvey Bullock—but you made the latter quit, so you have only one choice, _Commissioner_ …Why the **hell** do you have so many dolphin figurines on your shelves?"

Loeb spoke hoarsely, "Fine. Done. What else?"

"Anything you have on the officers of the GCPD will be given to me," Oswald said calmly.

"I don't have anything—" Loeb began.

"Bull. Shit." Sylvia said, slipping back into the kitchen. "You have a million things on the cops in the GCPD. You gave Jim and Harvey their file when Jim confronted you about your homely little daughter, ain't that right?"

Loeb frowned.

"Answer her, pipsqueak." Victor ordered, lifting his gun to aim at Loeb again.

"Yes!" Loeb shouted, crossing his arms and glowering at the two of them. "She's right."

"See? _Mommy_ knows a liar," Sylvia cooed. (Oswald's eyes flashed with something that shouldn't have been there.) She approached Loeb who instinctively took a step back from her. "You're scared, aren't you, Commissioner?"

"You're more out of control that James Gordon ever was." Loeb whispered.

"You'll do well to remember that, yeah?" Sylvia said softly. She poked him in the glasses, grinned widely, and then she strolled through the kitchen, looking through the pantries until she found a box of Poptarts.

"I'll make Essen the Commissioner," Loeb said. "And I'll give you what I have on the GCPD…anything else?"

"That's all I have," Oswald said, nodding in satisfaction. "Sylvia?"

Sylvia swallowed the bite of the pastry and said pointedly, "I want you retired _tomorrow_."

"That's a little demanding…" Loeb began.

"Is it?" Sylvia retorted. "Call it a 'wedding present'. You have resources at your beck-and-call, and Gotham's people think you're the best thing since _Lay's_ came out with the potato chip. You can use that power to do what someone else wants for once."

"That's unreasonable," Loeb insisted quietly.

Sylvia shrugged, looking at Oswald: "Is he right? _Am_ I being unreasonable."

Oswald smirked saying, "Don't be ridiculous, Pigeon. It's last-minute, but doable."

Loeb looked at a loss for words.

"Good. Then—if there's nothing else, I believe we're done here," Oswald said, tapping his fingers on the counter. "It's a shame we won't be in attendance; I hear retirement ceremonies for police officers are absolutely beautiful." As an afterthought, he said, "Maybe they'll tape it for us."

"Production values suck at these things, Boss," Victor informed. "I don't think it'll be the same."

"That's a shame," Sylvia mocked. "I always wanted to view a ceremony for a corrupted has-been. But this is Gotham; I'm sure we'll have plenty of opportunities."

Loeb said boldly, " _You're_ corrupted."

"Yeah," said Sylvia with a small exhale as she approached him once more, her face nearly touching his. "But I've admitted that _long_ ago. You, my friend, have lived in _constant_ denial of it, even after the fact. And once you retire, I want you to slither into your hole or back under whatever rock from where you've been hiding."

Loeb suddenly had a great difficulty swallowing and Sylvia's wide grin danced maliciously on her features. She winked at him, and then breezed into the living room to admire the other figurines that sat on the entertainment center, making a point to mock him further.

Oswald and Victor exchanged amused glances, noticing how much she just reveled in this moment. Clearly, Loeb was through with being pushed around, but unable to do anything about it. Sylvia deserved this much, having suffered through Loeb's need to torture her brother with demotion and even putting the Ogre on his trail—and thereby putting _her_ life in danger.

It wasn't until Loeb was shaking with rage and fear when Sylvia finally tired of the fun and left the house; Oswald and Victor followed after her.


	10. Mama Pigeon

Chapter Ten: Mama Pigeon

Author's Note: **Okay, first things first: major warning here** : There is pegging and anal play involved in this chapter, and the mommy kink is strong in this one. If that is something that puts you off or something you can't read, I _highly_ advise skipping the chapter because, lord have mercy, did I let my mind get dirty tonight! All aside, I think I've kept Oswald in character for something he's never done (in canon, at least), and I hope you all enjoy reading it as I have enjoyed writing it. Secondly: Sylvia and Oswald are almost married—it's only taken three goddamn stories for it to happen, but I'm just as excited as you are! Happy New Year! 😊

Sylvia couldn't remember much from last night after she, Victor, and Oswald left Commissioner Loeb's house. Hell, she didn't even remember changing into pajamas and crawling her ass into bed—but apparently, she did. She awoke in the red tank top, but had traded her capris for booty shorts; her boots were thrown to the floor, lying lopsided near the bedroom door.

"What the…" Sylvia mumbled. She looked to her immediate right, and smiled when she saw Oswald still wearing his suit from last night—the tie was undone, his dress coat placed on the foot of the bed, and the rest of him was disheveled.

The comforters weren't even pulled out of the corners and she wasn't sore—Sylvia presumed that they had come to bed, and fallen asleep right where they'd lied down. It made sense: between running the club, running the empire, finding Gregor, the dress, and everything in between, Sylvia and Oswald may as well have exhausted themselves.

But with the realization of the day, Sylvia beamed, immediately awake and no longer groggy. She was getting married. She was going to become Mrs. Oswald Cobblepot (or Mrs. Penguin, depending on who addressed her, really).

She bit her bottom lip in suppressed giddiness, glancing at Oswald who mumbled in his sleep. His words weren't audible, but he was so cute when he talked. If it weren't for the fact that they had to take care of several things before the evening arrived, Sylvia might have let him sleep in—god knows, he needed a long nap.

Carefully shaking his shoulder, Sylvia stirred him out of his deep sleep.

"Mmmm-mmm!" Oswald whined; he turned on his stomach, pulled the pillow closer to him and shoved his face into it, trying to hide from the oppressing sunlight boring into the bedroom.

"Ozzie, get your ass out of bed," Sylvia said, poking his head. "We have too much to do to sleep in."

"Mmm…"

"I _know_ you're not asleep."

"Hmph!"

"Get _up_ , damn it." Sylvia said sternly, getting to her knees. She pushed him towards the end of the bed; maybe the sensation of falling would get him going.

"Stop…pushing me…" Oswald groaned, lifting his head enough so one blue eye peeked from the pillow. "I'm awake."

"You're going to fall back to sleep if you don't get up right now," Sylvia warned.

"I'm not."

"You _will_. You _know_ you will." Sylvia goaded. "And then who will you blame? Me?"

"I'm not…falling asleep…" Oswald murmured. "I'm resting my eyes, woman."

"Yeah, that's what you said the day before—and you fell right back to sleep…and you're doing it right now."

Oswald growled, and Sylvia chuckled at the sound.

"Well, 'King of Gotham', if you want to sleep the day away, be my guest." Sylvia sighed as she slid out of bed. "I have to drop by the club and make sure Tiffany has everything handled before she starts taking pictures at the church; I still have a few more invitations to give out too…"

Oswald yawned and rolled onto his side, facing Sylvia, who ambled towards the closet and pulled out a black turtle neck with a white, knee-length skirt. Wordlessly, she undressed, taking off her top, revealing her perky braless breasts; as she shimmied out of her boy shorts, she heard a soft 'Mmm' come from Oswald.

She glanced at him, and saw that he was watching her, fully awake.

"Like what you see, huh?" Sylvia said with a soft smile.

"Mm-hmm," Oswald hummed, smiling back at her.

Sylvia stepped out of her boy shorts, pulling down her underwear with it. She straightened and slowly walked towards Oswald, who sat up.

"Do you remember anything from last night?" Sylvia asked.

"Not much," Oswald answered. He made a soft sound in his throat, licking his bottom lip as she stood within reaching distance.

She moved out of his reach when he made a point to touch her. Sylvia grinned wickedly when his expression shifted from eagerness to confusion.

"That's what I thought," Sylvia breathed, smirking at him. "You know, I'd call this 'payback'." She turned around, and wiggled her rump.

"Payback for what?" Oswald asked incredulously.

Sylvia turned to look at him, smirking, still.

"I was _all over_ you last night," Sylvia reminded calmly. "But you weren't interested."

"If I recall correctly, you wanted to have sex in Commissioner Loeb's kitchen," Oswald said pointedly. "It was tempting, believe me, but inappropriate."

"Perhaps it being inappropriate was why it was so tempting," Sylvia reasoned.

"You're not wrong," Oswald admitted.

"Do you want me _now_?" Sylvia said quietly. She touched her breasts, caressing and teasing her nipples, sliding them down her rib cage, to her stomach, over the soft apex of her hip bones, all the while she performed a teasing, slow dance in front of him.

His lips parted ever so slightly, his eyes dilated to the point the cerulean irises were covered. She could practically see his mouth watering, and he reached out to touch her yet again. And just as before, Sylvia moved away.

"Use your big boy voice, Ozzie." Sylvia purred. "Tell Mama what you want from her."

Oswald scoffed, "You're not serious…"

"You _like_ it when I refer to myself as 'Mama', Ozzie." Sylvia said, her voice was buttery soft but there was still an edge to it—like a mother chastising her child but not yelling.

Oswald's skin tingled at the sound of it; an uncomfortable, but not so unpleasant, warm feeling trickled inside his abdomen. A guilty pleasure, a forbidden fruit that he wanted to taste but was afraid to ask.

"Call me 'Mama', Oswald." Sylvia said quietly. "And I'll promise you can have a taste, hmm?"

He looked at her, still incredulous to her request. However, she lowered one of her hands to her sex, a single digit slipped inside of her so easily and withdrew; Sylvia brought the finger to her lip, and sucked to the knuckle, her delectable honey.

At his strong hesitation to do what she asked, Sylvia leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth. He quickly turned his head so her kiss landed squarely on his lips; with her tongue, she divided the line where they met. Sylvia explored his mouth, her hands lifting to cradle his face in her palms. When she found his tongue, she let out a slow, soft hum.

"It's no different when I call you 'Daddy'." Sylvia whispered. "Isn't that right, Daddy Penguin?"

Oswald didn't respond. Not at first.

"Mommies and Daddies play with each other," Sylvia said. " _Don't_ they?"

Oswald could taste the honey on Sylvia's tongue, the brand of euphoria he preferred, the drug to which he was solely addicted.

" _This_ is how Mama Pigeon wants to play," Sylvia coerced, sucking his bottom lip gently. "Now…does Ozzie want a taste?"

"Yes."

"Yes, _what_?" Sylvia said firmly.

Oswald blushed a shade of beet red as he whispered, "Yes, Mama."

"Mm…" Sylvia purred. "Now, how easy was that?"

Oswald's eyes flashed at her. Sylvia thought it was a glare of daggers, but the stiffy in his pants said otherwise. Seeing his cock start out soft and become hard just from this alone made Sylvia's insides melt like butter. How far could she take it though?

Oswald was hard when she submitted to him. His need for control was obvious—but there was a dark part of him that longed and craved nurturing. The way his face glowed red, bringing out the freckles that adorned his face, made Sylvia smile.

"Strip," Sylvia ordered.

Oswald defiantly remained still, and Sylvia grinned. She'd hoped he would react this way.

"You said—" He began.

"I know what I said," Sylvia cut him off. "Now, do as I say. Strip. When you've done that, lie on your back."

She readied herself for a snappy response, a short-tempered tantrum that would come out from hearing her condescend to him, but no such response came. Instead, he softly cleared his throat, and stood to his feet.

"Okay."

He'd spoken so softly, Sylvia had to question whether or not she had actually heard him! His quiet submission drove a pleasurable jolt down to her sex; Sylvia grinned widely when Oswald stripped, placing the clothes at the foot of the bed with his dress coat, and he lied in the middle of the mattress on his back.

"You know, I _did_ buy something for last night," Sylvia stated as she walked around the bed and stooped to the bed side table. "But I suppose we were so tired, we just passed out on the bed. But…since you were such a fucking cock tease last night, I figure you can make it up to me this morning."

Oswald glanced at Sylvia, noticing she called _him_ a 'cock tease' instead of the other way around. And when he saw what she held in her hand, he registered her meaning quickly. A wicked, impish smile curved the finer lines of her mouth as she held up a leather harness, and a short but girthy, apricot-colored dildo.

"What do you intend to do with that?" Oswald questioned calmly, although he wouldn't dare admit that his heart was attempting to sledge-hammer through his chest cavity at the moment.

"During one of our lessons of self-control," Sylvia uttered smoothly, "you teased me, and I told you that if you didn't fuck me right then and there, I would do something to you. Do you remember what I said I would do?"

"You'd fuck me with a—" Oswald recalled quietly.

"A strap-on, yes. And _I_ was serious," Sylvia replied, placing the harness on the bed. "Were _you_?"

"Half-serious," Oswald muttered.

Sylvia opened the bed side table and placed a large bottle of Lubriderm on the surface.

Oswald glanced it wearily before saying, "I reiterate: 'what do you intend to do with—'"

Sylvia said lightly, "I'm going to put this on" (she held up the harness) "smother this sex toy with as much lube as humanly possible, and I'm going to finger your virgin ass until you're begging for it to be fucked—"

"Sylvia—" Oswald began shakily.

"—and I will only acknowledge what you say when you call me either 'Mama', 'Mama Pigeon', or 'ma'am'." Sylvia finished, unaffected by his widened eyes and quivering voice, speaking matter-of-factually. "If you don't want me to, tell me 'no'. And we will forget this all together, but we'll still have sex because, frankly, seeing you naked on the bed gets me wet. What do you say?"

Oswald looked at her, in the middle of an internal battle it seemed. Hearing her tell him what she wanted to do to him, it was too good not to take her on. And she said she would be gentle at first…that seemed like a promise she solely intended on keeping.

"I need your spoken consent, babe," Sylvia told him when he nodded.

"Yes."

"Be specific, Ozzie. What do you want me to do to you?"

Oswald's face and neck flushed the same color of magenta as he whispered, "I want you to fuck me…Mama Pigeon."

"In time," Sylvia promised. "First things first. Lie on your stomach."

Oswald pressed his lips together into a white line, and with much resignation (but equal anticipation), he did as he was told.

"Turn, so you're lying horizontally on the bed," Sylvia clarified.

He shifted, and felt his feet hovering above the floor, taut with the rest of his body. He watched Sylvia amble around the room, and she pulled the full-length mirror from behind the closet door so it was now in front of him; he peered at his own flushed reflection. In the mirror, Oswald saw Sylvia move to the bedroom door; she opened it briefly just so her head peeped out from the crack so neither of their naked bodies would be seen.

He heard her tell one of the servants not to come in, no matter what they might hear. Oswald's cock twitched at this perverse order, and a small smile crept to his mouth. Sylvia now stood at the mirror, her beautiful naked body straightened.

"You're wondering, I bet, why I put this mirror in front of you." Sylvia stated lightly, gesturing to his reflection.

"Something like that," Oswald admitted.

"Men, like you, are visual creatures. You'll get off on watching me fuck you—it'll be physically stimulating and mentally pleasing—just as _I_ will get off on knowing I'm fucking Gotham's King." Sylvia said casually, shrugging a shoulder as she added, "I've always wondered what it would feel like to be at the top of the pyramid."

"You're not at the top." Oswald pointed out.

"No, that's true. _You_ are. But _I_ will be on top of _you_ ," she sighed, smirking. "That's the fun part about being King and Queen. There's an exchange of power, and I'm going to show you what that feels like. You'll be my strength; and I, my little penguin, am going to be your weakness.

"Did you know that in a wolf pack, when an enemy approached," Sylvia said as she stepped into and buckled the harness, "the female wolf will duck so she's hiding under the male's neck. One would think she's submissive…but that's not inherently true, is it?"

Oswald didn't answer as he watched her intently.

Sternly, she said again, " _Is it_?"

"I don't know much about wolves." Oswald said quietly.

"Well, it's _not_ true." Sylvia continued, smirking at him. "In fact, the female is protecting the male wolf's throat—wolves are pretty nasty creatures, protective, dominant—even playful— but when one of their own gets attacked, they're out for blood. Let the enemy try to play with them, like leading a lamb to slaughter."

Oswald watched Sylvia pull her hair up into a high pony tail, but some defiant bangs and strands of hair fell messily around her face. And, god, was she sexy…Oswald felt his heart hammering harder in his chest, butterflies started flittering away in his stomach.

"And much like the female that protects the male," Sylvia sighed, "I sometimes _appear_ submissive, but _you_ know—better than anyone—I'm anything _but._ "

Oswald glanced up, meeting her eyes.

"You know I love you, don't you?" Sylvia uttered affectionately as she knelt down and met his eyes.

"I do," Oswald returned quietly.

"Good. I'm glad you do. Because once my dick is in your ass," Sylvia purred as she stroked his face (he nuzzled the palm of her hand with his lips) "I'm going to fuck you like I don't. Do you understand?"

Oswald licked his dry lips and murmured, "Yes, ma'am."

"Good." Sylvia cooed, and she kissed his cheek. "Now, if it becomes too much, don't hesitate to stop me. 'No' means 'no' in this situation, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," Oswald returned, smiling apprehensively.

She kissed him on the lips, and he reciprocated. He watched her get on the bed, taking the bottle of Lubriderm with her, and he felt the weight of the bed shift.

"Put your hands in front of you, Ozzie." Sylvia said gently. "So that you can hold onto the edge."

Oswald shifted and placed his hands on the edge of the mattress, his eyes transfixed on the mirror as Sylvia placed a large gob on her fingers. Oswald breathed in sharply when her lubricated fingers lined with his entrance; the gel was colder than ice compared to the heat radiating from his back side.

But he bit his tongue and closed his eyes, and mumbled to himself to 'relax'. He could feel his thigh muscles and stomach were taut with tension, and no one would blame him. He'd never done this before, and Sylvia was already shaping out to be a hard-driven femdom.

"Relax, Oz," Sylvia soothed.

She slowly worked the cuticle of her middle finger inside and Oswald was thankful that she'd taken her nail length into consideration. He tilted his head back, his eyes meeting his own reflection; then, they flitted to Sylvia's naked torso, her lips puckered as she uttered her soft "Shhh"'s to relax him—and it was undeniably working.

"Do you like that?" Sylvia whispered. She had one finger deep inside him, lightly wriggling, and when she curled that digit and touched his prostate, Oswald struggled to stifle an involuntary, needy moan.

"Ooh," Sylvia said, smirking at her reflection. "I think he _does_."

From her perspective, it was like nothing she'd ever seen before.

The muscles that tightened around her finger contracted with his internal struggle for tension versus forced relaxation; and those were not the only muscles struggling to find ease—as she stood on her knees, Sylvia grinned as her eyes took in Oswald's arms and back muscles flexing in an effort to remain quite still.

Her eyes met his reflection in the mirror, and Sylvia felt empowered when she saw his mouth open, his eyes closed, and his eyebrows knitted together when she found his sweet spot.

She pulled out her finger, covered two fingers with the lubrication, and then just as slowly before, slid them inside—one centimeter, after another. She heard Oswald's attempts of muting his whimpers; his throat stifled them from peeping out, but they were there…just lingering below the surface.

Sylvia uttered, her voice was soothing, "We all have a button, buried deep inside us. I've always wondered if I would know yours if ever I _did_ find it…"

Oswald nodded his head, exhaling deeply and then inhaling sharply when she wiggled her fingers inside of him like she'd done before; his thighs clenched once more, drawing his feet up, and Sylvia licked her lips at the sight.

"We all have a button we don't want anyone else to know about…one we don't want to admit we want pressed," she drawled. "But guess what…I found _yours_."

She slowly thrusted her two fingers in and out of him; and his body, as though it was in a trance, moved in time with her assistance.

"You like my fingers inside of you, don't you?" Sylvia murmured.

"Yes—mmm!"

She curled her digits inside of him and he let out a needy whine.

Sylvia sat beside him, lying on her side so she continued to finger his ass, but she was able to enjoy the view of bliss emanating from his face. She snuggled close to him, her lips nuzzled his ear and she whispered, "You look _so_ vulnerable, baby…so eager, so needy. I wonder if this ass of yours can take three, huh? Let's see…ah…that's a tight fit, but oh…there we go…"

Oswald gritted his teeth, but he didn't deny her. How could he, now? Every time her fingers entered, he was granted a euphoric spark of bliss, something that he wanted to try over and over again; and when she removed those tantalizing fingers of hers, Oswald was left with an emptiness, and immediately, he could feel his body begging for it all over again.

Three fingers inside, moving in and out of him. And his appetite that he'd buried in his loins from last night was steadily becoming an aching pain. His cock was so hard, pleading for attention. His own hand trembled to leave the edge of the bed.

"You want to touch yourself, don't you?" Sylvia drawled. "I can see your brain working in overdrive. I'll give you what you want, sweet baby, but you have to _say it_. Aloud."

"Touch me."

"I _am_ touching you," Sylvia mused, smirking at him.

Oswald glowered at her.

"You want me to touch your cock, huh?" Sylvia asked coyly. She leaned into him, and licked his ear, causing him to gasp. "What would you give me in return if I did, little Penguin? Hmm?"

"Anything you want," Oswald mumbled.

"What was that?"

"I'll give you anything you want, Pigeon, please…"

"I want this…" Sylvia returned; with her free hand, she grabbed his ass, digging her fingertips into his flesh.

"It's yours," Oswald mumbled, looking at her desperately.

He hoped it was what she wanted to hear; her aggression, the darkness of her voice was doing things to him that he never thought were possible; he didn't think he could fall deeper in love with her, but he was wrong!

It seemed to do the trick since she sat up…

"Get on your hands and knees," she said. "Keep facing the mirror."

He silently obeyed.

She nearly dumped the whole bottle of lube around his entrance and on the dildo attached to her waist. Oswald admired the curvaceous form behind him, the way her perky breasts looked in the mirror, her nipples taut.

Sylvia had been right; the mirror was physically pleasing. And what the mirror _didn't_ show was the mental stimulation; he felt the flesh-like dildo against his butt cheek, the firm but flexibly curved material slowly rimming his canal.

"Do you remember my promise?" Sylvia whispered.

"Yes."

"Say it aloud for me."

"You're going to fuck me like you hate me."

"Good boy." Sylvia said.

Oswald bit his lip when the words of praise registered in his ear, and tingled the head of his cock. As she slowly and meticulously probed his ass to open for the dildo that was slowly making its way inside, Sylvia reached around his waist. With her hand already wet and warm with lube, she rubbed his cock from the base of his shaft to the head, her thumb ghosting the tip where he was already leaking precum.

Oswald breathed shallowly, glancing at the mirror when her slow, steady entrance became a slower exit. And when she quickened her pace, Oswald's pupils were full blown when he saw her hips rolling to thrust against his; the black leather encasing the soft contrast of her milky skin made his cock twitch happily.

"Stay up, Oswald," Sylvia encouraged.

Only then did he realize he had slowly been moving down to the mattress, the pleasure so overwhelming that he was losing the strength to stay on all fours.

He panted, "Too…much…"

"Do you want me to stop?" Sylvia questioned, pausing briefly.

"No!" Oswald suddenly whimpered. "Don't stop—I just can't…"

Sylvia gathered his message and said, "Lie on your back then."

She withdrew from him, only long enough so he did as she suggested. Things were reversed in this sort of way, and it only felt awkward for a moment as she hunkered down between his legs, lining the strap-on just perfectly and thrust her hips more forcefully this time. Oswald keened, and Sylvia clamped her hand over his mouth; he licked the palm of her hand gratefully, and she smirked down at him.

One hand muffled his longing moans, Sylvia's other hand kept herself balanced as she grasped the headboard, which kept banging against the wall with each forward push of her hips. Oswald raised his hands above his head, pushing the headboard away so it remained shoved against the wall, and that silenced the annoying thudding. Sylvia let out a small chuckle, and he did too.

Sylvia replaced her hand with her mouth, shoving it against Oswald's when his moans heightened. She was certain that between them, she was the most vocal; but this proved her wrong. Oswald was definitely louder!

"I'm keeping my promise," Sylvia panted.

"Good—I don't want you to break it," Oswald groaned.

That's all the consent Sylvia needed. Once more, she clamped her hand over his mouth; and the hard smile she sent him was something Oswald would never forget. She sped up her tempo, and forced every inch of her strap-on inside his ass. The sounds that attempted to escape past her hand were fucking maddening; it spurred her on!

His hands left the headboard (it started banging against the wall again) so he grabbed her shoulders, his nails raked down her back several times and Sylvia let out a heated moan; she was certain he drew blood, but she ignored it. The constant rubbing of the dildo against her clit, the small vibrations of her harness forced her into a third orgasm, but just as before, Sylvia powered through it.

She wanted him to cum as she fucked him, and Sylvia was determined.

Oswald was close—he panted, and screamed (yes, _screamed_ ), and every body part that could move was tensing up; his eyes closed, his eyebrows knitted together, as he craned back his head and arched his back, Sylvia's free hand moved to his cock, rubbing up and down his shaft for the final draw.

He came in her hand, and Sylvia smirked when he did. Oswald's left leg and right wrist twitched from the aftermath of a powerful orgasm; Sylvia stood wearily to her knees and weakly crawled out of her harness. She placed it on the surface of the bedside table, rubbing her inner thighs from where she had chafed from the constant movement; it was red, but otherwise, fine.

"How do you feel?" Sylvia asked.

Oswald's breathing was slowly returning to normal as he looked up at her, eyes glossed over and lips slowly twisting into a crooked smile.

"Better than ever." Oswald answered.

"Aren't you glad I love pressing your buttons?" Sylvia boasted, smirking down at him.

"More than anything." Oswald sighed deeply. "I love you, Mama Pigeon."

"I love you too, Daddy Penguin." Sylvia returned. She glanced at her watch and frowned: "That whole thing took an hour-and-a-half."

"Time well spent," Oswald exhaled, smirking at her.

Sylvia gave him a look saying, "I know you're in a drug-like euphoria, babe, but we still have a _lot_ to accomplish before the wedding happens. So…" she groaned as she slid out of bed and balanced on her feet. "Please, get up, get dressed…do that thing with your make-up and hair, and I'll meet you on the veranda, yeah?"

"You are _really_ bossy inside the bedroom, you know that?" Oswald questioned as he sat up with an effort. "I feel like you need to be taken down a peg or two."

"Well, what we just did—I pegged _you_." Sylvia said, winking at him. "So, let's not quibble, eh? Now, _please_. Get up, Oswald."

Sylvia approached him on his side of the bed, and kissed his cheek, then his bottom lip. He grabbed her jaw with one hand, and pulled her into him with the other, holding her hip. She stood between his legs, cocking her head to the side at him.

"Don't stop," Oswald said quietly.

"Don't stop what?"

"Looking at me like that," Oswald said.

"Looking at you like _what_?" Sylvia questioned curiously.

"Like I'm your King," Oswald uttered.

Sylvia grinned and she kissed him again, saying, "You've always been my King. With or without the crown. Now…seriously, _please_ get dressed. We have a lot to do."

Oswald nodded and he stood to his feet, collecting his suit from last night and placing it in the hamper before putting together the one for today. Sylvia watched him, her shoulder leaned against the doorway of the bathroom and she grinned.

"You realize that the next time we see each other today, we'll be saying 'I do'?" Sylvia said softly.

Oswald looked at her curiously, contemplated the very same thing, and smiled.

"I do realize it."

"Any second thoughts?" Sylvia teased.

"None. You?"

"Absolutely zero."

"That's comforting," Oswald stated.

Sylvia winked, saying, "Isn't it?" And she twirled before going into the bathroom and started the shower. Oswald considered getting ready in a different room, but this _was_ the last time he'd see her before the wedding. Oswald placed his clothes neatly on the bed, then stepped into the bathroom to shower with his fiancée one last time—because the next time they did this, they would be husband and wife.


	11. Invitations and Expectations

Chapter Eleven: Invitations and Expectations

Sylvia arrived at the GCPD by nine o'clock in the morning. In her hand, she carried invitations (pastel yellow calligraphy on azure background), which were neatly placed in a solid white envelope; Gabe had done a beautiful job in helping her select the colors. While Oswald wasn't yet entitled to understand why she had chosen the colors, Sylvia had ensured him that he would understand when the time was right. The only people who knew what she was going to wear were herself and Victor.

At this point of the day, most of the police officers, Jim included, were just receiving their new cases or following up on leads that would hopefully give them their next clue to solving the mystery.

Setting foot in the station, she realized that it had been a long time since she had seen Harvey Bullock (granted, he was no longer working for the GCPD) or Captain Essen; for that matter, Edward Nygma. She doubted most of them would accept her invitation, considering the groom's reputation and title, but Sylvia wanted to offer it either way; her feelings wouldn't be hurt…she really only expected for Jim to be there.

As she approached the Desk Sergeant's podium, the chair's occupant greeted her with a smile of his own.

"Well, long time, no see, Miss Gordon!"

"Good morning," Sylvia greeted. "Is Jim here?"

Just as the Sergeant began to speak, Captain Essen gathered everyone in the middle of the room, calling all bodies to attention. Sylvia turned to see that there was a giant slide projector; apparently, she'd caught the entire station in the middle of a debriefing.

Sylvia leaned towards the podium and whispered, "Should I leave?"

"Nah," the Sergeant said, smirking at her. "It's just an update."

"This looks like it's important, an only-need-to-know basis…" Sylvia stated uncertainly.

"You're Jim's kid sister," the Sergeant chortled, grinning downwards at her. "Don't you already know everything anyway, one way or another?"

Sylvia let out a breathy laugh through her nose: "Point taken, Sarge."

"Just stay in the back," the Sergeant insisted, gesturing beside him. "It'll only be a minute."

"Thanks."

As instructed, Sylvia stepped back so she blended in with the other police officers who were currently not in uniform. Captain Essen turned on the projector, and looked at everyone seriously. Beside her were familiar faces: her brother, of course, Dr. Thompkins (the new M.E.), Kristin Kringle (the little records custodian), and Ed Nygma stood just a few paces behind her; Sylvia smiled inwardly when she noticed the puppy dog eyes…he was still pining for her. Things didn't really change that much in the station.

"You all know what we're facing here," Captain (or rather _Commissioner_ ) Essen declared. "Forty-eight hours ago, six criminally insane inmates busted out of Arkham Asylum. Yesterday, four of those inmates broke into Yellen shipyard, kidnapped seven workers, and dropped them off the roof of the Gotham Gazette…"

Sylvia's eyes widened.

 _Okay…._ Maybe, a _lot_ of things had changed since she had last set foot in the station. Sylvia glanced at the Desk Sergeant with a second's hesitation, wondering if she really needed to be here for this—it looked like major important police business.

He exchanged her look with one of nonchalance so Sylvia remained quiet, crossing her arms as she observed the crestfallen faces while dread occupied most of the officers' expressions.

In Gotham, one could only hope for twelve hours' worth of peace and tranquility. Gothamites were optimistic when they received a good night's sleep, even.

"As of now," Essen continued with slight annoyance, "we still don't have any leads on the person or persons behind the breakout—Jim Gordon's lead…Jim?"

Sylvia smiled, feeling a little bit of that ol' sister pride when Jim's back straightened upon hearing his name; he thanked for the segue in, dutifully took the remote offered by the Commissioner, and then went into it.

Like that old soldier habit, Jim's voice was stern and strong: "These are our targets."

He stepped forward and out of the way of the projector, revealing one escaped inmate after another, going over the name and the crime of which they had been accused, tried, and convicted.

"Jerome Valeska: eighteen-years-old, matricide." Jim said; the slide flickered. A young man of stated age with ginger roots smiled maniacally at the camera.

The slide changed to one of Arnold Dobkins, stated to be a schizophrenic, poisoner, and a rapist.

The projector flickered again to Aaron Helzinger: he killed his entire family with his bare hands.

Robert Greenwood: he killed and ate a dozen women.

For each new inmate that appeared, Jim held no emotion in his voice as he described the heinous crimes…that was until the screen flickered for the last time and revealed Barbara Kean. Sylvia noticed Jim's hesitation; that small fraction of a second; whether that was the awkwardness of having his ex-fiancée showcased in front of his current girlfriend, or perhaps he was still feeling guilty about allowing the Ogre to capture and brainwash her, Sylvia wasn't certain.

But the hesitation was there. Gazing at Lee and the sudden downward cast of her glance, Sylvia was certain that Lee might have been wondering the same thing. Regardless of his emotion or whatever he had felt for a split-second, it disappeared as he continued.

"Barbara Kean…killed her parents." Jim said finally.

The projector turned off, and he turned to face all of the police officers.

"We're going to work this in groups of four," Jim announced firmly. "I will hand out assignments through the day. Alvarez is my coordinating officer. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Let's get to work!" Jim dismissed.

Everyone broke the wave and started doing whatever they were doing prior to the brief. Sylvia glanced at the Desk Sergeant expectantly; the latter nodded her forward so Sylvia nodded back respectfully and then first headed for the forensic lab.

Ed was in the lab, doing what he did best: working on the puzzles. On his station were several poisons—or she assumed them to be—on several mini plates. She tapped two knuckles against the door; with large, circular goggles that made his eyes appear buggy, Ed peered up and smiled when he saw her.

"Sylvia!" Ed exclaimed.

"Hi, Ed." Sylvia greeted. "May I?"

"Oh, where are my manners," Ed chuckled. He pulled off his goggles and placed them on the table, smiling still. "Come in!"

Sylvia entered, and glanced at the curious plates.

"Did I catch you at a busy time?" she asked.

"Not at all," said Ed, crossing his arms comfortably across his chest. "Timing couldn't have been better; you actually caught me on a break."

"Good to hear."

Ed glanced at the invitations in her hand.

"Oh," Sylvia gasped. "Right, the reason I'm here…" (She handed one to him.) "I'm getting married tonight, six o'clock at the Gotham Chapel."

He took it slowly, looking at it, then at her as though he was uncertain whether to hold it, drop it, or throw it out the window. Opening the envelope, Ed smiled at the color scheme.

"I like the calligraphy," Ed complimented.

"Thank you. You could ask Kristin to come…as your plus-one."

"You're really trying to help me out, aren't you?" Ed said, placing the envelope on the table beside his goggles.

"Well, you're a nice man. I think it's time she spent time with a nice man, not the past few pricks she's been with…Speaking of which…I've not seen Dougherty for the last few days. Has he been reassigned?"

Ed allowed a small smile to reach his eyes before he said seriously, "No. He's not been reassigned."

"I suppose he's on vacation," Sylvia uttered, eyes flickering to the ceiling. "A man like him has so many places to be but very few places he's wanted. Don't you agree?"

Ed tilted his head curiously to the side, and said slowly, "I'd say that is a very odd but accurate way to put it."

Sylvia looked at him, narrowing her eyes slightly.

"You look different," she said, gesturing to his overall appearance.

Ed feigned understanding saying, "Whatever do you mean?"

Sylvia smirked saying, "You know where Officer Dougherty is, don't you, Ed?"

"I can't say I do." Ed said nonchalantly. "If I did, would I not tell you?"

"Wouldn't you?" Sylvia questioned. When Ed didn't blink, she said smoothly, "You keep tabs on him and Kristin—your pining for her has never been more obvious, Edward."

Ed tentatively placed a small gelatin sample of one of the alleged poisons on a transparent microfilm, and tasked it under the microscope lens for a closer look. He glanced at her secretively, sizing and focusing the lens, before he held his hand out to it.

"Would you like a look?" Ed asked gingerly.

Certain this was a segue to either a deeper meaning or a riddle, Sylvia cleared her throat, placed the invitations on the table neatly, and obliged; she slid between Ed and the table; Ed respectfully gave her room, side-stepping to her right, while also watching her with his arms crossed and repositioning his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose.

Sylvia peered into the scope, seeing a shamrock green sample. Other than that, it looked utterly harmless.

"Ed…"

"Yes?"

"What the fuck am I even looking at?" Sylvia questioned, glancing at him.

"This," said Ed, gesturing to the microscope and ergo the sample, "was used to poison our latest victim. Without going into the specifics, it's anti-freeze."

Sylvia chuckled, "I didn't think anyone used that anymore."

"It's a favorite," said Ed darkly, nodding. "It's not the anti-freeze that kills you, but the compound in it."

"And you're going to tell me what that is, I imagine," Sylvia assumed smoothly.

Ed grinned widely: "Do you _want_ to know?"

"Sure, why not—knowledge is power."

She'd never seen him smile so big when she said his favorite words. Ed made a gesture for her to scooch over and she took a few steps to the side; he took a notepad from his front lab coat pocket and scribbled two words:

"'Ethylene Glycol'?" Sylvia read aloud. "What the hell is that?"

Ed said slyly, "I'm so happy you asked. It's a tasteless, odorless, sweet-tasting liquid that is commonly found in anti-freeze; the sweet taste, you can presume, disguises it; it can be drunk accidentally, or—"

"Or I can slip it into someone's caramel macchiato and no one would be the wiser," Sylvia said coyly.

She was certain Ed would be shocked by her dark sense of humor as he so frequently was, but this time around, he surprised her with a certain coy grin of his own.

"And there's the beauty of it," Ed said, tapping the microscope. "Fascinating stuff, isn't it?"

"It truly is, Ed," said Sylvia with a gentle sigh, "but…" (he quirked an eyebrow at her segue) "I can't help but feel you're trying to make a point."

Ed held the invitation she'd previously given him and he placed in it his pocket.

"Officer Dougherty isn't on vacation, Miss Gordon—"

"'Sylvia'." She interrupted politely. "Please. We've spoken enough, I think we're past formalities. Aren't we, Ed?"

"Sure thing," he chirped in agreement.

"And whatever it is you were about to say," said Sylvia lightly, grinning at him, "I'm sure that you _don't_ want to tell **me** here."

Ed peered into the microscope for a third time before slowly looking at her; his expressions were blank, like he had been caught red-handed. And this made Sylvia smirk.

"You're in a forensics lab, in a police station. You're talking to a detective's sister—I'm certain I am the _last_ person you want to theorize about Dougherty's odd disappearance," said Sylvia quietly, smirking at him. "But…just so you're made aware: I'm not stupid."

"I can't imagine I know what you're talking about," Ed said enigmatically.

"Sure, you don't," Sylvia uttered knowingly. "But for what it's worth—I'm glad Officer Dougherty isn't with Kristin anymore—"

"Who said they weren't?" Ed questioned suddenly.

"Kristin is a beautiful lady," said Sylvia. "A woman like that is never left alone, Ed. _You,_ of all people, should know that. And if a brute like Dougherty isn't pestering her, I can only surmise that either he decided to skip town and leave her alone, or you may have been involved…after all, I know how you feel about Kristin. And while I don't know much about the guy, Dougherty was a prick—and that's speaking politely."

Ed scrunched his face, like he might continue to feign ignorance. However, seeing as how Sylvia was cryptic as well with the knowledge that he was somehow involved in Dougherty's unusual absence, Ed allowed himself a small smile.

"You're a nice man, Ed." Sylvia commented, picking up her invitations. "Kristin deserves someone like you."

"That's nice of you to say. But how do you know that for sure?" Ed said quizzically. "What if I'm just _pretending_ to be nice?"

"Are you?" Sylvia returned.

"Just kidding." Ed said, nudging her in the shoulder. "Thank you for the invitation. I don't know if I will be able to go though, honestly. I have…" He gestured to the mini plates of gelatin-like unknown substances.

"It's a thought," Sylvia said, shrugging. "If you can, great—if not, it's fine."

"Thank you," Ed said sincerely.

He held out his arms and Sylvia quickly hugged him, knowing Ed was awkward enough already. Sylvia left shortly after, visiting with Lee Thompkins who said she would happily come.

"Where are you having the reception?" Lee asked, smiling widely.

"It'll be at the mansion," Sylvia informed. "Don't know if you want to go to that, considering it'll be full of gangsters."

"Sounds fun!" Lee said gleefully.

Sylvia blinked: " _How_ are you dating my brother?"

Lee laughed aloud, still grinning widely. The Medical Examiner leaned her backside against the steel table, glancing over the invitation, then looked at her again.

"Jim says he's going to walk you down the aisle," Lee said conversationally.

"Yep," Sylvia said. "This whole thing with Oswald has really put stress on our relationship. It's nice to know we can move forward after all this time."

"I bet it'll be a beautiful ceremony."

"Will you be able to attend?"

"I'll make it, one way or another," Lee promised.

Sylvia glanced behind her at the doorway and then stepped towards Lee in one single pace. The latter quirked an eyebrow at the sudden display of discretion, but when Sylvia spoke, it became evident as to why.

"I heard the inmates broke out of Arkham Asylum," Sylvia uttered quietly. "Barbara was one of them?"

"Unfortunately," Lee sighed, glancing downward. "She called Jim and me the other night…"

 _Well, that's why Barbara wanted a phone…_

"Did she threaten you?" asked Sylvia gently.

"Well, she wasn't calling to give me beauty tips," Lee said sarcastically; there was an air of humor in her voice, despite the worried edge.

"Well, you have Jim to protect you."

Lee glanced at Sylvia saying, "Does that help?"

Sylvia cocked her head to the side: "Does _what_ help what?"

"Does the thought of Jim being a detective make things easier?" Lee asked. She gesticulated to their current surroundings, saying, "The constant epidemic of losing life and limb; the death threats…the random calls in the middle of the night?"

Sylvia smiled sadly. She placed a hand on Lee's shoulder.

"No."

Lee snorted, "And here, I thought you were about to tell me that it does."

"I'm not one for dishonesty," said Sylvia, shrugging. "And I don't bullshit. Never have, never will. Frankly…I think it takes a strong person to be with someone like Jim. As his sister, I can say that."

"I see how you two are related."

Sylvia smirked, saying, "Come again?"

Lee pointed at Sylvia's head, saying, "You have the same cynical sense of humor."

"Stubbornness runs in the family, sure, but the cynical humor has come with time." Sylvia informed lightly. "At one point, Jim and I were both very happy."

Lee gave her a gentle glance asking, "When was that?"

Sylvia replied, "It really depends on which sibling you ask. Jim's been kind of cynical ever since Dad passed away."

Lee looked at the redhead for a long moment and asked, "So who broke _your_ heart?"

Startled, she looked at Lee, who continued to watch her knowingly. Sylvia's lips tightened to a white line; she blinked a few times, her jaw clenched, and then she gave Lee a hard smile.

"I was a realist long before Jim or Dad ever were," Sylvia finally said quietly. Her fingernails dug into her palm, unknown to her. "I was a happy kid: an optimist, if you can believe it. Not just one person or one event made me what I am."

"And _what_ are you?" Lee asked, her eyes searching Sylvia's.

"I'm a sinner," Sylvia uttered lowly. "Dr. Thompkins…"

"Please… _Lee._ "

Sylvia said calmly, "Over time, I have had my heart broken several different times—not by criminals who steal, lie, cheat…criminals, enemies: they don't break hearts. The people who love you are the ones who can hurt you the easiest, and often times will hurt you the most."

Lee tilted her head to the side a little, and her eyebrows knitted together in an attempt to understand Sylvia's cryptic message. After a moment, Sylvia suddenly smiled and laughed apprehensively.

"Look at the two of us," Sylvia said shakily. "I'm just chatting away and surely, you still have work to accomplish before the day is out. Excuse me…" She started to walk away, but Lee snatched her wrist.

"Sylvia—"

She slowly turned. Lee immediately let go.

"It was Jim…" Lee realized aloud.

" _What_ was Jim?"

" _He_ broke your heart." Lee said quietly.

Sylvia didn't even try to smile. Instead, she admitted unhappily, "More times than I can count."

"He's trying," Lee offered in his defense.

"If it's important enough, one makes time for it," Sylvia insisted calmly. "I have, many times, sacrificed my time, my opportunities, and even my life to be there for him. So far, the only time he has done that is when he wants something from me. Now…hopefully, for your sake, he's a better boyfriend than he is a brother."

"He's going to your wedding," said Lee, gesturing to the door in reference to Jim. "He doesn't care for the groom, I suppose, but he's clearly trying."

Sylvia allowed a small smile to tug the corner of her mouth but nothing more.

"You love him, don't you?" Sylvia said, although it wasn't much of a question.

Lee lifted her chin proudly saying, "Yes. I do."

"Glad to hear it." Sylvia said. She approached Lee, who suppressed the urge to step back, and with good fortune too.

Sylvia hugged her around the shoulders, and then smiled at her.

"If you can make it to the wedding, splendid," said Sylvia with more pep in her voice. "If not, I will understand. I'm guessing Jim is out and about by now—would you remind him? I know how forgetful he can get when he starts hunting people down."

"Sure, I will." Lee promised, nodding earnestly.

"Thanks."

Sylvia smiled one last time before leaving the room.

Her last visit before the ceremony took place at one in the afternoon, in the charming residence of Harvey Bullock's current place of employment, the bar. As she strolled into the simple building, Harvey was speaking with his current girlfriend, Scotty. Hearing the familiar click of her heels, Harvey grinned widely upon seeing Sylvia approach the bar counter.

"Hey!" Harvey laughed. "There's my sister from another mother!"

He clapped her hard on the back as Sylvia managed, "You need to get your eyes checked, Bullock."

"Come bearing gifts of tidings?" Harvey teased. "What's that you got in your hand?"

"Invitations," said Sylvia, handing one each to Harvey and Scotty.

"Ooh!" Scotty gushed. "Congratulations! Weddings are so beautiful. Harvey, we should—"

"Not a chance…" Harvey muttered. "Scotty, would you…?"

Sensing the build-up of tension, Scotty glanced between him and Sylvia and opted to stay out of this one. As she went around the back to occupy herself, Sylvia took a seat on the stool in front of the former cop and smiled expectantly.

"If you're going to try and talk me out of it—"

"I'm not doing that," said Harvey with a sigh of exasperation. "I'd be wasting my breath."

"Yes, you would be."

"And I suppose you got the 'big brother' talk about the birds and bees?"

"I've been fucking Oz for the past year-and-a-half," Sylvia said smoothly. "I'm well-acquainted with the birds and the bees."

Harvey cleared his throat, raising his eyebrows as he groaned, "You have a way with words."

"I've been known to turn a phrase," Sylvia said, clicking her tongue and winking at him.

"Always been a charming trait of yours."

"'Charming', is it?"

"Actually, if we're being honest—"

"Aren't we ever?"

"—Your brutal honesty really turns me on," Harvey teased.

"And your crude humor turns me off."

"Like a dimmer switch."

"Or a breaker box," Sylvia commented.

After a second of stone silence, they broke out in laughter.

"You're a real smart ass," said Harvey, wagging his finger at her. "How did Penguin manage to get a girl like you under his coat tails?"

"A drunk like you couldn't understand," said Sylvia smartly.

"No warning shots, huh?"

"En guard."

"That's what you say _before_ you attack."

"You know how to block." Sylvia said, interlacing her fingers on the table. "Besides, it's all in good fun. _How_ have you really been though? Still sober?"

"As a reformed Christian."

"Impressive. Do you miss the booze?"

"I like a drink from time to time, but I don't really need it."

"I could use a drink right now."

"Having cold feet?" Harvey asked as he turned to gather a bottle of vodka, a tin of ice, and cranberry juice from the back; he returned with all three items and combined them in a glass, placing it in front of her.

"No," said Sylvia truthfully. "It's just the usual nerves. Everything's supposed to go 'perfect' and when things don't…it's a one-time thing, you know."

"Mm-hmm—tell that to the losers that renew their vows."

"It's a romantic gesture."

"A waste of time, if you ask me."

"I didn't."

"I know," said Harvey, winking at her. "So, where's this thing happening, anyway?" (He looked at the invitation.) "Wow, a _church_. And **you** of all people."

"Oswald's preference," said Sylvia.

"You don't sound too thrilled."

"You know how I feel about churches. But his mother was a Christian and she raised him in that religion, so I figured, he's entitled to it."

"Does he know you're an atheist?" said Harvey sneakily.

"It's never come up."

"Sounds like a conversation to be had."

"I doubt it," said Sylvia, taking the glass and taking a few sips from it.

"Where's the reception? I might go to _that_."

"At the mansion."

"Falcone's old place?"

"Yep."

Harvey made a face of impressive agreement, but then he chortled, "Is Falcone invited?"

"I sent out the invitation," said Sylvia calmly. "He's more than happy to attend."

"Does Penguin know?"

"I doubt he'd come so there's no need to tell him."

"24 hours from getting hitched and you're already keeping secrets," Harvey snickered, leaning towards her. "You're already digging yourself a hole, little Vee."

"You should know a thing or two about secrets, Harvey," Sylvia retorted, quirking an eyebrow at him. "Does Scotty know you're into—"

"Whoa! Let's keep that between us!" Harvey said quickly, gesturing madly.

Sylvia said quietly, "Well, if she ever gains 300 pounds, at least you'll still be irrevocably attracted, right?"

"You're such a bitch," Harvey said, shaking his head but smiling.

"And you're an asshole."

"Your brother's an ass-hat."

"You couldn't be more right about _that_." Sylvia muttered before taking a few more gulps of her drink.

"You finally convince him to come over to the dark side?" Harvey asked, crossing his arms on the counter; he leaned casually to the right, saying, "Never thought I'd see the day. Did you strong-arm him?"

"He said he'd attend."

Harvey chuckled, "Come on, baby. I know you two. You guys got that brother-sister, hate-love relationship. What did you have to do so he'd come to the wedding?"

Sylvia frowned saying, "The fact that _you_ even **assume** that…" She stopped herself before she continued.

It was Harvey's turn to frown.

"You and Jim are in a deeper pile of doo-doo than I realized," said Harvey seriously.

Sylvia said nothing to that. Instead, she finished her glass and smiled at him, and handed him a twenty-dollar tip.

"He'll come," Harvey said sincerely. "He's a putz, at best, but he wouldn't miss your wedding, little sister. Trust me. If I know Jim like I know him, he _will_ come."

"Thanks, Harv." Sylvia said, smiling at him. "Am I right in assuming you won't be attending?"

"I love you, sweet thing," said Harvey. "But I can't _stand_ Penguin. I'll be there in spirit."

"Can't have you drinking all my booze at the reception anyway," said Sylvia, smirking at him.

"Keep walking!" Harvey said, shooing her out with a hard laugh.

Sylvia left and headed back to the mansion.

It was time to get ready.


	12. I Do and I Can't

Chapter Twelve: I Do and I Can't

 **Author's Note** : For reference, this is the song that plays while Sylvia walks down the aisle (and my inspiration): " _Canon in D_ " by Romantic Wedding Music Masters. (For my Visual Readers, the picture of the wedding dress is linked to my twitter; I place the link on my Account 'about me' page if you wanted to see it.)

* * *

Sylvia stood in the backroom of the church while the pianist played several classical pieces (mostly to entertain the guests that were slowly filing in). She peeked through the door, searching for Jim. The tightening of her jaw and her compulsion to peek through the cracked door made the people around her aware that she was more stressed now than ever before.

She stood in the strapless, pastel yellow cocktail dress which cut off just below the knee. A large ribbon tied off just above her left breast. Her hair was pulled into an up-do, ribbons of azure blue and diamond pins complemented her eyes which were shining bright cerulean; she wore very little make-up, aside from winged eyeliner and nude lipstick.

Her nerves jumbled like a jamboree inside her stomach, twisting her insides into knots. The giddiness of being the bride was strongly overwhelming, and while Sylvia could only grasp onto what would be the most important night of her life, her mind was plagued with doubt.

 _What if Jim didn't come? What if he forgot—or worse…purposely didn't show?_

His damnable pride, his constant need for validation of his morale could prevent him from coming. Then Sylvia would be forced to walk down the aisle alone—not many brides were left with that option. So why did Sylvia feel like _she_ would be?

She heard an elderly woman protesting at the exit and Sylvia turned to see Gertrude making her way through the crowd: Victor was still maintaining security and after explaining that she was the groom's mother, Victor allowed her entry. Seeing Sylvia, Gertrude rushed forward, and suddenly wrapped her arms around the bride.

"You look so _beautiful_ ," Gertrude said, her eyes nearly reduced to slits as she smiled so widely. "A princess!"

"Thank you," Sylvia said, smiling back. She glanced through the door again, and Gertrude's eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"Expecting someone, dear?"

"Yes," Sylvia said quietly. She turned to Gertrude. "Just my brother…"

"I'm sure he'll be along," Gertrude comforted. She gently rubbed Sylvia's shoulder—Sylvia could certainly see from whom Oswald got his comforting skills.

"I don't say this often enough," said Gertrude honestly, "But…"

"I'm not the wife-type," Sylvia recalled, smirking at her. "I remember you telling me that."

Gertrude let out a little nervous laugh before saying, "No, no… _liebchen_. I was wrong…. I realize that now."

"Aw," Sylvia cooed, placing a hand over her heart.

"I love you—you're the daughter I never thought I would have…" she said.

"You're making me blush," Sylvia teased.

Gertrude wrapped her arms around her again and Sylvia patted her head (she stood a few inches taller in heels). Gertrude quickly pulled away, a hand ghosting over her cheek just beneath her eye as she mumbled, "I best go—I think it's almost starting. And I want to speak with my little cobblepot before things get moving!"

"Sure, take your time," Sylvia reassured.

Gertrude smiled widely and then left through the door; Sylvia glanced through it.

Lee was here, wearing a burgundy, off the shoulder dress. But there was no sign of Jim.

"It's almost time…"

Sylvia turned her head to see Victor standing beside her. He was also looking through the cracked door, and he looked just as disappointed, if not more.

"He's not coming, is he?" Victor said coolly.

"Just give him a few more minutes," Sylvia said impatiently, glaring at him. "He might just be running a little late."

"He's not coming, Liv."

" _Lee_ is here," Sylvia said, pointing at the medical examiner. "Why would she come without him?"

Victor frowned, and placed a hand on her shoulder: "You're doing it again."

"Doing _what_?" She snapped.

"Waiting."

"He's my brother, Victor," Sylvia hissed. "He said he would come to my wedding. He _said_ he would. He promised."

Victor sighed deeply.

"Just a few more minutes," she mumbled, eyes fluttering. "He'll _be_ here."

Victor nodded curtly. Still, Sylvia continued to stare at the crowd; people stood around the benches, talking to each other. Men who worked for her at _Lean on Vee_ 's had even shown, dressed sharp in tuxedos and suits. Gertrude, wearing a black and gold dress, was at the altar, standing with Gabe and Butch (both men were dressed in hilariously matching Armani suits), and she was talking with Oswald.

Sylvia had encouraged him to be himself—'don't play to the ceremony, she said. He did the thing with his hair and make-up, looking more suave and sophisticated, much like himself. Per her request, he wore his black suit with a sapphire vest, and a gold-on-blue tie; he would match her perfectly.

To her reluctance, the pianist began playing the music on cue: her number, _Canon in D_. It was time to walk down the aisle.

Mr. Bell, her 45-year-old Head of Staff (as well as physical trainer), appeared by her side with a bouquet of lily-rose hybrids, promptly handing them to her. The irritation in his eyes was not reserved for her, however, Sylvia could see herself reflecting the same expression.

Jim had broken a promise to her. She was still surprised that she was shocked by the common occurrence. Perhaps she'd fooled herself into thinking that he would actually do her this one solid kindness. It wasn't as though she'd asked for much—in fact, she hadn't asked for _enough_.

"My dear," Mr. Bell uttered gently. "He's waiting for you."

Sylvia tore her eyes from Mr. Bell's, and glanced once more time through the cracked open door. She saw Oswald standing there: back straight, poised, and his eyes searching the aisle for her. She'd never seen him so happy, so eager.

Sylvia looked at Mr. Bell, who nodded encouragingly for her to go.

"You know," she muttered. "For years, I've always had Jim by my side. As kids…." She stopped talking, feeling a strange sensation catch her throat.

She had the most horrible urge to cry.

"It doesn't matter now, I guess. I just didn't think I would have to walk down the aisle alone on my own wedding day," Sylvia said cynically, hardening her smile. She glanced at Mr. Bell before she turned and started heading through the door.

However, a voice stopped her.

"You're not."

Sylvia turned to see Victor striding forward. He handed Mr. Bell the clipboard of all those who were allowed to pass the threshold; Mr. Bell took his meaning and nodded dutifully. Victor, dressed in his usual black attire, complete with fingerless gloves, turned to Sylvia and tilted his elbow towards her.

"You're having a laugh," Sylvia uttered quietly.

"I'm fairly certain I am not," Victor returned seriously.

Sylvia bit her bottom lip. One more look at the back door…maybe Jim would come last minute…but so far, no one came through them. Sylvia looked at Victor, who watched her expectantly.

Rolling her eyes, but cracking a smile, Sylvia took his arm with one hand and held her bouquet in the other.

Through the front double doors, they strolled down the aisle. Under her breath, Sylvia counted the seconds, each step that she took, each flower petal she stepped over as a means of dismantling the growing, nervous pang inside her chest, the quick beating of her heart. Oswald gave Victor a curious look (surprised that it wasn't Jim, perhaps) but wordlessly smiled as she and the professional hitman approached the altar.

When they stopped, Victor took her hand from his elbow, and kissed the back of it gingerly while bowing slightly to her. Sylvia mouthed, "Thank you" and he gave her a quick smile before taking his seat between Butch and Gabe, both of whom glanced at him pointedly before returning their gaze to the front.

The minister wore robes of ebony, and a white collar; he stood plainly behind a podium, glancing between the bride and groom for only a few minutes as the pianist finished playing the musical number. When the music faded, the minister began to speak from the Bible; Sylvia was deaf to the verses. Instead, she bit her lip, her mind working in overdrive due to Jim's unthinkable absence.

Oswald took her hands, pulling her gaze from the carpet to his.

"He didn't come," Sylvia muttered, glaring at him, but her anger wasn't directed towards Oswald.

Genuinely, he said "I'm sorry, Pigeon."

"Doesn't matter," Sylvia said, glancing at the minister who continued talking. "The day's not about him. It's about us."

Oswald looked her up and down before asking, "Is that the same dress you wore for—"

"With a few modifications, yes," Sylvia said, answering his question. "You remembered."

"How could I forget?" Oswald replied, winking at her.

The minister finished the sermon, and placed his hands outwards, saying, "I'm told that the bride and groom have prepared their own vows. Is that right?"

"It's not left," Sylvia said smoothly, smirking when the minister gave her a weird look—but the audience tittered.

"Ladies first," the Minister insisted, waving to her.

Sylvia smiled widely, and looked at Oswald.

"Oz," she said lightly. "You know me. I was raised by a lawyer for a father, and—well, you've seen what my brother is like." (A few more chuckles from the crowd.) "That being said, out of the two of us, you have always been the more hopeless romantic, and I usually accept your beautiful words with aloof, and—too often—sarcasm. So, to keep things consistent, I vow to always be by your side…or under you…or on top…"—A few people snickered at the last while Oswald blushed a shade of pink—"and I vow to still grab your butt even when you're old and wrinkly…" (a few more people tittered) "All playfulness aside, I promise that I have loved you for all that you were, and I will continue to love you for all that you are, and for all that you will be."

Sylvia was certain that maybe he would cry, but Oswald pulled himself together. Yes; he was definitely the more emotional one between the two, but it was so fucking adorable.

"Now, the Groom," said the Minister, gesturing to Oswald.

"I fell in love with you the way one falls asleep; slowly, and then all at once," Oswald said poignantly. "You saw me when I was invisible. And against all odds, you are still by my side—I have no idea as to why or how, but I have every intention of standing by yours. And when you can't look on the bright side, I will sit with you in the dark."

"Come Hell or High Water, babe," Sylvia whispered, winking at him.

"Do you, Sylvia Diana Gordon take Oswald Cobblepot as your lawfully wedded husband?" the Minister asked, straight to the point. (He looked really uncomfortable, standing less than a foot from Gotham's kingpin.)

"I do." Sylvia said, making Oswald smile.

"And do you, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, take Sylvia?"

"I do."

"If there is anyone here that believes that these two people should not be wed, let them speak now or forever hold their peace…" The minister called.

Sylvia glanced at the crowd…one last time. She met eyes with Lee, who shook her head, appearing just as disappointed. Just as the Minister was about to continue, someone stood up—someone that Sylvia didn't recognize—and they opened their mouth and said, "Well, I think—…"

In five seconds, Gabe, Butch, Victor, and ten other people stood simultaneously, taking their handguns out of their jackets or pant pockets, cocked and aimed them at the nameless man before he even finished the sentence.

" _Nevermind_!" he squeaked, and he ran out of the church.

Sylvia and Oswald nodded at their men in appreciation before they both turned expectantly at the minister who appeared startled by the sudden reaction while those who had stood now sat back down.

"You were saying?" Victor encouraged from the crowd.

The minister stammered, "Oh yes…um…uh…"

"Oh, for the love of…" Victor mumbled. He stood up. " **Boss** "—Oswald looked at him— "kiss the _other_ boss!"

Sylvia laughed; Oswald didn't need to be told twice. He kissed her; She returned it, trying to hold in her laughter as Victor shouted, "FINALLY!"

The minister still babbled, looking everywhere but at the men who had pulled out their weapons and he decided to get the hell out of dodge before someone else decided to object to the marvelous wedding. There was clapping and some of the men and women working for Sylvia hollered and whooped while Oswald's men, the more professional actors, clapped: calm and collected as usual.

The wedding ended as soon as it had begun; Sylvia stood outside the church, looking up at the night sky while she listened to the mindless chatter of those around her; after the people had finished congratulating her and Oswald, wishing them luck, that sort of thing, Sylvia had gone out for a bit of fresh air.

On behalf of the church, the service provided a few bottles of wine, and glasses of champagne were given to the guests; they all stood outside or in the archway, talking.

Sylvia stood on the driveway, her eyes cascading from the starry, cloudless sky to the pavement under her heels, deep in thought.

"They say to remember that 'the bride is always beautiful'. I didn't expect you to look any different," spoke a calm muse.

She turned to see Lee approaching her.

"Thank you, Lee." Sylvia uttered quietly.

"I know what you're thinking," Lee said arbitrarily; the glass of champagne in her hand tilted towards Sylvia indicatively.

" _Do_ you?" Sylvia challenged calmly. "Are you a shrink?"

"Not officially," Lee said seriously. "I had some trauma counseling, but it's not my area of expertise."

"Then how do you know what I am thinking?"

"Psychologists aren't mind-readers. Neither am I. But…I can tell you're thinking about something and there's only one person who I know of that could make someone look the way you do…"

Sylvia pursed her lips tightly together, closed her eyes for a second, and looked at Lee with forced calm. Lee stepped forward, and placed a hand on her bare shoulder in an attempt to comfort; instead, Sylvia withdrew from her.

"So, let's address the elephant in the room…" Sylvia said coolly. "Where's Jim?"

"I don't know."

In a thinly veiled attempt at serenity, Sylvia asked, "Did he get wrapped up in a case?"

"I can't say," Lee stated, glancing at the church in thought. "We have a heavy caseload, sure…but he said he'd come."

"How did he sound when he said he would?" Sylvia questioned.

"You think he lied?" Lee inquired curiously.

"You sound surprised."

"It would surprise _me_. He doesn't lie to me."

"I wonder what that feels like," Sylvia muttered; resentment flashed in her eyes.

"He sounded reluctant, sure," Lee admitted. "But he said he made a promise."

"Mm." Sylvia smiled sarcastically. "I told him I wouldn't mention anything about what happened with Ogden Barker. For that price, he said he would come to my wedding. You know what he did to get reinstated, don't you, Lee."

"I do."

"Tell me. What do you think about him now—after what he's done," Sylvia said coolly.

Lee shrugged saying, "I think he did what he thought was right…"

"That's what he'll say," Sylvia uttered curtly. "That's how he'll describe it, 'for the greater good'…What he _really_ did was make a deal to get Loeb fired so that he could get what he wanted—and to do that, he killed a man. _That's_ what he really did."

Lee tilted her head to the side curiously, but said defensively, "How come you're telling me something I already know?"

Sylvia's smile didn't reach her eyes. She took a step towards Lee, her eyes glowering.

"I've always been there for him," Sylvia said. "And I've always been put on the back burner until he needed something from me…This time around, I thought maybe that had changed."

"I'm sure he can explain himself."

"I'm sure I won't want to hear it," Sylvia replied coldly.

"Sylvia…"

She stormed off before Lee could get another word out.

Oswald spoke with Victor in low tones; all the while, he watched Sylvia and the medical examiner from the GCPD speak. Watching Sylvia storm off, he excused himself from Victor and walked after her.

Sylvia stood in the now-empty church, watching the custodians sweep up the flower petals. She smiled politely at the workers, who regarded her presence before returning back to their work.

"Pidge."

Sylvia turned to see Oswald, meeting her in the aisle. She quickly brought her hands to her face, looking away quickly, then she attempted a smile. Oswald didn't need to ask if she had been crying; it was evident by the redness of her eyes, and how much effort it took for her to crack a grin.

Oswald held his arms out to her and she moved into them. He rubbed the small of her back and the nape of her neck. He whispered soft nothings, telling her that it would be all right. Jim could break her heart, and Oswald would be there to put the pieces of her soul back together again.

Seeing her cry on their wedding day, however, was something he just _refused_ to tolerate. When Sylvia regained her composure, Oswald recommended that they go to the reception, have a few glasses of wine, chat with their guests, and maybe that would turn things around for the better.

Sylvia agreed.

Back at the mansion, the newlyweds entertained their guests with drinks, music, the whole gala—Victor enjoyed a plate of lobster while Butch, Mr. Bell, and Gabe talked about sports or something to that affect. It wasn't until about ten o'clock at night when a car pulled up the driveway; stepping out was a haggard-looking James Gordon.

Oswald and Sylvia had been sharing a laugh with Butch and Tiffany when Jim approached them. He was breathless, but otherwise, appeared quite calm.

Seeing him, Sylvia's expressions immediately changed from joyful to contemptuous. She said to Oswald, "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

Oswald followed her gaze to that of Jim, and nodded in understanding, saying softly, "Fine, Pigeon…"

She started walking away. Just as she did, Jim approached. But in that instant, Victor, Butch, Gabe, and Mr. Bell stepped forward, blocking his way while she continued to walk as though she hadn't seen him.

"Get out of my way, Zsasz," Jim ordered.

"She doesn't want to see you today, Jim," Victor cautioned. "You might want to let this one go."

"I have to talk to her," Jim demanded. "Now. For the last time—get out of my way."

Oswald cleared his throat, and Victor glanced at him curiously; he sent him a meaningful look, and Victor nodded, keeping his stance. Glowering at the men, Jim turned and stalked towards Oswald.

"Tell your men to move aside."

"My men are doing exactly as they've been instructed," Oswald said with a tight smile.

Jim said through gritted teeth, "You think you can marry my sister and keep her away from me?"

"Oh, heaven's no," Oswald said incredulously. "I wouldn't keep her from seeing you—regardless if you _are_ the reason she's crying on her wedding night. But—I digress—"

Jim lunged forward, grabbing Oswald by the collar, and nearly picked him up. Normally, Oswald would have been unnerved by his aggression, but protecting Sylvia had overridden any anxiety Jim might have caused.

"I _can_ ," Oswald continued harshly, "however, make sure that _you_ stay away from her."

"What the hell does that mean?" Jim snarled.

"It means" (Jim whirled around to see Victor, who spoke) "The Boss isn't ordering us to keep you from her. _She_ is."

Jim threw Oswald away from him; the latter stumbled back, but caught his balance after a moment. Jim started towards the mansion, shouting Sylvia's name. However, despite his aggressive actions, no matter how he tried to step towards the mansion, someone always blocked his way. Oswald watched Jim's useless effort, smirking inwardly.

"SYLVIA!" Jim bellowed. He glared at Oswald: "What have you done—"

Oswald sighed in exasperation, "'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned', and Jim, Sylvia is _furious_ with you. So, if I were in your unfortunate position, I'd say—"

Jim made a point to pull back his fist and punch Oswald, but another hand caught it. Jim turned suddenly to see Sylvia standing behind him, holding his wrist; her eyes protruding and nostrils flaring.

"Lay a hand on my husband, and I will put you in a goddamn coma," Sylvia threatened.

Jim lowered his fist, still surprised that she had made her way all the way over to him so quickly. Her cold expression didn't change as she demanded, "Why the hell are you here?"

"Vee…I know you're angry, and I'm sorry I wasn't there, but—"

"You're _sorry_?" Sylvia retorted furiously. (And the rest of the chatter died as the guests turned to look at them.) "I asked you for **one** goddamn thing, Jim. 'Walk me down the aisle'—you didn't have to say anything or stay for the whole ceremony—but you left me _alone_!"

Jim frowned, saying, "You know why I didn't go."

"No—I _don't_." Sylvia snapped, glaring at him. "You **said** you would come, you _promised_. You broke that promise **to me**. But I shouldn't be so surprised, should I?"

"Sylvia, you need to understand where I'm coming from," Jim said desperately. "Look at him, he's a criminal—"

"I'm standing _right_ here," Oswald pointed out sardonically.

"—And I'm—" Jim began, but Sylvia cut him off.

"It doesn't _matter_ what he is— _you were supposed to come for_ _ **me**_!" Sylvia shouted.

"You can't marry someone that—"

"—Who are you to tell me who I can and can't marry—"

Sylvia and Jim were arguing, their voices steadily growing louder and louder in order to speak over the other sibling. Oswald stared at them, certain that while he did want to intervene on her behalf, it was best to let them fight it out.

Jim said coldly, "My job is to protect you from criminals, I can't do that if you're married to—"

"I don't need your protection!" Sylvia shouted furiously. "I don't need you to be a cop! I need you to be my brother but—"

"You won't even let me talk!" Jim snapped.

"Because you're being stupid!" Sylvia retorted, throwing her hands up in the air. "You were supposed to be here, Jim! Here _for me_!"

"I got caught up at work—"

"Color me shocked," Sylvia snarled.

"You know what my job is like!"

" _Lee_ is here," Sylvia said, pointing at the medical examiner. "She works with you. How come she was here but you weren't! If you didn't want to be here, James, all you had to do was tell me 'no, I won't come'. You could have saved me the embarrassment, the humiliation! I asked you for _one_ thing, Jim. _One fucking thing_ —"

"And I told you my conditions," Jim told her. "I told you what would have to happen—"

"OUR RELATIONSHIP IS NOT BASED ON DEALS!" Sylvia screamed.

Jim blinked. She was breathing heavily, her face was nearly red. Her eyes were on fire, and Jim took a step back when her teeth bared at him.

"Let me refresh your memory," Sylvia said hatefully. " _I_ was the one who took your bullshit. _I_ was the one that stuck around even through your shittiest moods—even when Dad died. While you were fucking falling apart, I was there for you."

"Sylvia—"

"SHUT UP, JIM!" Sylvia snapped. "You don't think I know what you sacrifice every day? You don't think I know what being a police officer means for you? If you don't think I do, then fuck you! You know? I sacrifice a lot that you know nothing about! Do you think about that—no, you don't. All you ever think about is yourself.

"When all that shit happened with Sionis and your cop friends were gone, it was _I_ who went with you to arrest Sionis: **Me.** You didn't have to ask me to come; you didn't have to! I was with you when no one else was, and when I needed you, Jim, more than anything or ever in the world, you _abandoned_ me—you didn't even bother to _call._ You just didn't show."

Jim stared at her, not because of her words, but because she was crying as she spoke. Tears ran down her cheeks, unstoppable. Her eyes were blazed with hatred, and her voice was shrill and it shook something awful. He took a step towards her, arms stretched out.

"Sylvia, I need you to listen to me."

"No! I'm done listening to you! You come to me with reasons why you didn't keep your promise, but they're just **excuses** to me. You're a great cop, but you're a shitty brother. You want to compare yourself to criminals—to them," (she gestured to her employees) "to _me_ " (she pointed to herself) "and say you're the better person, but you're _not_. The truth is that you will put your career, your reputation, and these goddamn Arkham Asylum lunatics before your own sister."

"I'm after them so I can protect you and the rest of the city," Jim said with an attempt of calm: "Do you see _that_?"

"They would be out and about today, tomorrow, or a month from now," Sylvia stated harshly. "You don't know when you will catch them; they could evade you for the next six months—you don't fucking know—but you had an opportunity to share a once-in-a-lifetime event with me but you pussied out because you don't like the groom."

Victor made a face and whispered to Oswald, "Ouch." Oswald sent him a filthy look but Victor shrugged. Jim glanced at the duo before returning his gaze at Sylvia, who crossed her arms.

"Vee…" Jim began, stepping towards her.

"You want to protect me from _these_ people," Sylvia said, gesturing to Butch, Gabe, and Oswald, and Victor. "But _you're_ the one who keeps hurting me. Please…for once. **Protect** me… _please leave_."

Jim's lips parted, out of pained shock.

"Vee…"

"I can't…" Sylvia whispered painfully. "You broke my heart…I just can't do this with you anymore."

She looked at Victor: "Please show Detective Gordon" ("Vee!") "to his car."

As Sylvia turned to go back inside, Victor, Gabe, Mr. Bell, and Butch stepped forward, blocking Jim, ready to fight. Jim glared at them and at Oswald, who lifted his chin defiantly. Jim snarled; defeated, he strode down the driveway, slammed the car door shut, and then sped off.

Certain that Jim would not come back, Mr. Bell was on his way to comfort Sylvia, but Oswald took his arm, stopping him.

"Let her be," he said. "She's upset. Not even _I_ will attempt to talk to her when she's like this."

Mr. Bell nodded and he crossed his arms in disappointment.

"She was so certain Gordon would come," said Mr. Bell quietly, looking at Oswald, who returned the glance.

"Sometimes the person you'd take a bullet for ends up being the one behind the gun," Oswald said softly, looking down the driveway where Jim had disappeared. "Where there is anger, there's always pain underneath."

Mr. Bell glanced back at the mansion.

"She's in a great deal of pain, then," said Mr. Bell softly.

Oswald looked in the same direction, and nodded in agreement.

* * *

It wasn't until midnight when the guests all started leaving; even then, Sylvia never came back out. When after the mansion was cleaned up, the only evidence of a party having taken place was the alcohol-filled staff. Oswald strolled through hallways, bidding them good night.

In front of the bedroom, he stood. The door was just ajar, the room was dark, and there was no way he would see Sylvia through the little space; if he wanted to speak to her, he'd have to come to her. Exhaling deeply and preparing himself for whatever storm was brewing inside the redhead, Oswald puffed out his chest and slowly opened the door; an eerie creek met his ears as the hinges resisted.

The light from the hall spilled into the room. Sylvia was under the blankets, covered up to her neck. Her eyes were closed, and he could see the swelling and deflation of the blanket as her chest slowly rose and fell in her sleep.

Oswald felt a roiling heat in his belly, not unlike what he had felt when Jim was standing in front of him, demanding to see Sylvia when she pleaded to be left alone. Sylvia provoked a possessive urge in him; and while he knew she was strong and self-reliant, capable of protecting herself in her own right, Oswald couldn't deny the resentment he held towards Jim for making his treasure feel this way.

Maybe Jim hadn't intentionally meant to do this to her, but the fact remained: he was the reason Sylvia had cried herself to sleep on what should have been the happiest day of her life.

Oswald approached the side of the bed on which she lied the closest. Her hair was a tangled mess, the after math of her likely having run her hands through it, trying to force herself out of this depressing state. By the light that allowed to pour into the room, Oswald could see her cheeks were stained with tears, her eyeliner smeared.

Seeing her this way broke his heart.

Oswald left the bedside only long enough to change out of his suit and into black top and bottom pajamas. Delicately, he pulled the covers down the bed, joining her; a small smile crept to the corner of his mouth when he noticed that she wore a lavender-colored night slip (She looked good in any variation of the purple hue.).

When he joined her, the bed shifted with his weight. He placed his hands on her shoulders to pull her close to him.

Half-sleep, she groaned, "Leave me alone, Jim", after which she attempted to push him away.

"It's me, Pigeon." Oswald said gently.

Sylvia heard the pet name and immediately, she stopped pushing. Her body became pliant against his own, curving into his so she could snuggle closer. Oswald shifted in his position, so they both lied down; he, on his side; she, on her back.

He kissed her on the cheek; to reassure that whilst in his company, she needn't speak. Between them, there was always a comfortable silence, during which they just enjoyed one another's company.

And that's what they did on their wedding night. Sometimes, silence was all that was needed. And for tonight, Oswald knew Sylvia needed it.

* * *

Author's Note: So, I am deeply sorry for such a late upload. It's flu season where I live and I caught it last week. Hopefully, I can get more writing done this week!


	13. Yin and Yang

Chapter Thirteen: Yin and Yang

* * *

Oswald finished dressing early in the morning, wearing his usual suit. As he straightened his tie and buttoned his cuff links, he peered through the bay window to see Sylvia and Mr. Bell strolling out onto the cement-floor veranda; the simplicity of the lawn-and-garden had been Falcone's idea to make the home more serene. However, for the purpose of the ex-CIA agent and his student, Mr. Bell and Sylvia (respectively) had pushed aside all the upholstery for preference of a battle-ready arena.

It wasn't spacious, the 'arena' itself; Mr. Bell had drawn chalk lines for boundaries, a small box that he and Sylvia would spar inside; one toe out of line literally would mean a beat-down. Oswald had watched Sylvia train every morning at the crack of dawn (normally 5:30 in the AM) and after a few sessions, he had to take his absence.

It amazed him just how much physical pain Sylvia could take—granted, she'd improved with impressive feat; she was a lot more agile, more physically strong: her arms and legs had become tanned and toned, and she radiated a sort of confidence that only body-builders seemed to possess.

It had been a few days since the wedding, and Sylvia had been training with Mr. Bell longer each morning. It didn't surprise Oswald; after all, she had a lot of anger, and sometimes, getting punched in the face or suffering a nearly broken arm seemed to ease the emotional pain that Sylvia couldn't be rid of.

Oswald leaned against the window, observing Sylvia and Mr. Bell circling the opposite slowly. They spoke in normal voices, their volumes not within range of his own ears. Mr. Bell was dressed in sweats and a black tank-top—showing off his large biceps and veiny strong forearms; on his head, he wore a beanie. And while the cook could appear like he was advertising a typical _Rocky_ training movie, Mr. Bell didn't need any look to show just what the CIA had trained him to do.

He specialized in close hand-to-hand combat. As he stepped towards Sylvia who appeared three times smaller than his own stocky, muscular size, Oswald flinched when Mr. Bell grappled her body into his; in five seconds, Sylvia was down on her knees, spitting curses that made even Mr. Bell ponder his mental innocence. After Sylvia showed signs of pain, Mr. Bell released her; Sylvia lied on her back, appearing defeated.

They exchanged a few words—most likely, Mr. Bell was offering some tomes of wisdom. Sylvia wasn't as motivated as she normally would be; much like Oswald, when mirrored with defeat, Sylvia would normally become more determined to strike down her opponent at any given turn.

Oswald wasn't the only one who could see that Jim's error of not having come to the wedding had hurt Sylvia in more ways than one. Jim had emotionally damaged Sylvia's heart, and the pain of that night—no matter how many times or how hard Mr. Bell punched her—would not go away.

In the next ten minutes, Sylvia and Mr. Bell sparred: their physical training ranged from push-ups, sit-ups, three-hour hikes around Gotham, and an hour-long session of either boxing or wrestling. Mr. Bell preferred boxing as it fitted his size and gave his larger than thou fist a run for the money, while Sylvia (being smaller, sprier, and flexible) preferred wrestling.

Oswald's smile widened as he watched Sylvia leap onto a chair, swing her body onto Mr. Bell's, and with her thighs tightened around the cook's neck, the latter grasped and clawed at any body part so as to loosen her grip. He slowly inched down onto his knees before he started slapping his hand on the concrete—their signal for 'Uncle!' Sylvia released him on command, and she slowly rose to her feet, breathing hard, but otherwise, a small smile creased her lips.

It was a smile that Oswald hadn't seen for a few days. He clamored down the walkways, greeting staff with a nonchalance, and strolled down to the veranda, cane-in-hand. The umbrella still remained in his closet, but the cane seemed to suit him more—both in preference and in exquisite taste. The penguin mount that served as a handle was just the cherry on top of the icing.

Mr. Bell was getting to his feet by help of Sylvia when Oswald met them on the veranda, smirking at the two of them as Mr. Bell rubbed his neck.

"You're getting better," said Mr. Bell, noting her agility.

Sylvia smiled at him, then looked at Oswald who greeted her with a little peck on the cheek.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

"Better," said Sylvia.

"I'd hope so," Mr. Bell grunted, taking a seat on the concrete. "You damn near tore my neck off."

Sylvia chuckled.

"I'm happy to see you in such high spirits," Oswald noted, gesturing apologetically to Mr. Bell, adding, "Even it is at his expense."

Mr. Bell chortled, glancing at Oswald saying, "Don't worry about me, old boy. I've got this thing down to a science."

"This ' _thing'_ ," Sylvia sniggered, "just bested _you_ at your own game."

"I _let_ you win."

"Sure, you did," said Sylvia sarcastically, rolling her eyes. To prove a point, she asked, "Is that a bruise?"

Rubbing his neck, Mr. Bell replied, "If your strength means my injuries, I'd say you have been doing well in our training and it's time to take it up a level."

"Meaning?" Oswald asked, glancing between the two.

"Meaning," Mr. Bell clarified as he stood to his feet, "That Sylvia might want to consider seeking out a more professional trainer if she wants to use her body as the ultimate weapon."

"I'm not finding another trainer," Sylvia remarked, crossing her arms. "Besides, if it's all the same to you, I prefer this to be an in-house ordeal. I don't want anyone else knowing that I'm learning how to spar."

"Can't imagine you would," said Mr. Bell.

Sylvia glanced at him, eyes flashing dangerously: "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I take it you and your brother used to do a lot of this when you were younger," said Mr. Bell, gesturing to the patio floor where she'd ultimately taken him down.

"We did," said Sylvia, lowering her arms to her sides and glancing mischievously at Oswald, saying, "I normally won."

"He probably let you win," said Mr. Bell.

"I doubt it," said Sylvia; she grabbed a water bottle from the pack that was normally seated underneath the grill and took a swig, saying, "Jim is competitive; he hates losing."

"It must be a family trait," Mr. Bell stated. He ignored Sylvia's counter-glance at he took a bottle of water as well, and sat in a chair, turning to Oswald who was watching the two of them with an air of amusement.

"What does your day look like?" Sylvia asked, wiping the sweat from her forehead.

"Busy," answered Oswald.

"So, a normal day," she giggled, earning her a small smile from him.

"What does yours look like?" Oswald asked.

Mr. Bell smiled between them and excused himself so that he could freshen up. Really, it was just a way to get out of being a third wheel. Sylvia and Oswald nodded respectfully to him as he let himself out of the way, and they grinned at one another knowingly. Sylvia took his arm, and they strolled through the garden, taking light of the fact that the sun was actually shining today (an odd occurrence owing to the fact that it usually hid behind dark grey clouds).

"I know you've been melancholy the past few days," said Oswald softly.

"Don't."

Oswald stopped walking, and she turned to him.

"I know what you're about to say," she said quietly. "I won't pretend that Jim didn't upset me. Hell, _everyone_ at the reception could see that. But I handled it differently than I should have—I let him ruin what should have been the happiest day of our lives, and it didn't end the way I wanted it to…you know?"

Oswald took her hands in his, and she looked at him, confused.

"If placed in your shoes, Pidge, I'd have likely reacted the same way," said Oswald reassuringly. "But that's not what I was going to address."

"Oh?"

Oswald said with a child's excitement, "I made dinner reservations."

"Straight to the point," said Sylvia, smirking at him. "No foreplay with you at all."

"I'm terrible at segues."

"You're lucky you're sexy then."

Oswald chuckled, gathering her sense of humor.

"Where's the dinner taking place?" asked Sylvia as they continued their stroll.

"That's a surprise."

"What should I wear?"

"Also, a surprise," said Oswald, winking at her.

"You're full of surprises."

"Only the good kind," He said, shrugging modestly. "If you want the bad…"

"If 'bad' means 'perverted', I'm all ears."

She turned so she walked backwards as he strolled forward. The smile on her face brightened when he grinned back at her.

"Maybe we should have dinner here," Sylvia offered.

"Dining in instead of out?"

"Well, if I am being honest," she said slyly, "I've a different idea for what I want for dinner."

Oswald cocked his head to the side curiously. But his silent question was answered with an equally nonverbal gesture: Sylvia kissed him, slow and tender at first, then with his reciprocation, it deepened and became passionate.

"We still have to consummate the marriage," Sylvia whispered against his lips; she lowered her hand between them.

Oswald startled as she grabbed him but he smiled at her with equal mischief: "I'll cancel."

"Yes, you will." She said, wrinkling her nose playfully at him. "I have to go by the club and make sure everything is ship-shape…I have a few dance rehearsals, and then—"

"What are you rehearsing for?" Oswald asked.

"The Children's Hospital is having a gala tonight," Sylvia informed.

"I didn't realize you were playing a part," Oswald returned, startled.

"Where do you think I've been running off to for the past few days?" Sylvia teased.

Oswald shrugged and said with a little embarrassment, "Perhaps I _have_ been a little distracted…"

"The Arkham escapees are putting dents in your empire," Sylvia stated. "I can understand why you would be…"

Oswald ignored the fact and asked, "Why are you having a dance rehearsal at a Children's charity?"

Sylvia ran a hand through her hair dramatically, saying, "Apparently, my talent for footwork has become _renowned_. Dr. Thompkins—you know, the M.E. for the GCPD? —"(Oswald nodded) "She's organizing the benefit, and she wanted a dance to introduce some magician. I've planned a few magical stunts," (Sylvia smirked) " _fire_ is a great part of it."

"I didn't realize you dabbled in illusions," Oswald said with a smirk.

Sylvia said coyly, "That I do. See, my sweet prince, there are things you still don't know about me."

"You're very much an enigma," Oswald agreed.

Sylvia wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. In turn, he settled his hands on her hips; she nuzzled his neck, and he heard her purr.

"Should I expect you to be coming home late, then?" Oswald asked as she withdrew from him once more, immediately feeling empty when she did and was reluctant to feel her body heat leave him.

"No later than usual," Sylvia said sweetly. "The gala isn't happening until tonight…and that's if people don't cancel. What, with the Arkham lunatics running around, I'm surprised there are still people having fun. Kudos to them, you know?"

"That, I do," Oswald agreed.

Sylvia pulled her hair up into a black scrunchie, a few strands of hair fell down her forehead in abandon. Since they'd married, Oswald was certain that they had spent less time around each other than the opposite; something was _always_ getting in the way of their intimacy—if it wasn't Oswald's running the empire, it was Sylvia's extracurricular activities as an entertainer. Granted, Oswald had the pleasure of being present for her performances as a professional dancer and singer, and he was more than happy to see that she received just applause for her hours of practice.

More people had flocked to _Lean on Vee_ 's just to watch her perform on stage, her club earning more money than when he or Fish Mooney ran the dive. Her dances involved agile, quick movements, and a great deal of sexual appeal; the woman could gyrate like a Colombian belly dancer from Aphrodite's inner circle.

Oswald had watched Sylvia's performances initially with full-blown jealousy (his eyes and fingers would twitch when he saw the way people looked at her); but whenever he was present for her rehearsals or actual real-time performances, Oswald had noticed that Sylvia's attention was always solely focused on him; in a way, it was like her dances and songs were completely directed towards him; he was her muse…and that was more than anything anyone else could say…that didn't keep him from feeling possessive and protective of her when a few men would wolf-whistle from the crowd and eye-fuck her.

Oswald wasn't surprised to see Sylvia's footwork receiving such publicity; at any moment, her performances and talented choreography would open up impressive business opportunities—and he was more than happy to hold that door open for her. Lee's suggestion for her to perform at a gala where many talent scouts would be in attendance was a double-door!

Sylvia looked at Oswald when she'd finished pulling her hair in a messy bun, noticing that his gaze seemed glossy, in a trance. She approached him, placing her hand on his shoulder; the simplest touch shook him out of his reverie and he suddenly smiled at her.

"You don't mind if I go to the gala, right?" Sylvia asked. "I know you had plans for us tonight, but…"

"When were you going to tell me, by chance?" Oswald said calmly.

"It never came up," Sylvia admitted. "It's been a rodeo since the wedding, and time got away from me…" She paused and said reproachfully, "Are you mad at me?"

"Of course not," Oswald said incredulously. "Why would I be?"

"Well, you made all these reservations…" Sylvia said, gesturing to the mansion indicatively. "And I just dropped this bomb shell on you…"

Oswald let out a breathy laugh, taking her hands in his. He rubbed his thumb over the single-diamond silver band on her left hand, the symbol of their unity, and said softly, "They're just dinner reservations, Pigeon. They can be cancelled any time—new ones can be made."

"Are you sure?" Sylvia asked, licking her bottom lip. "I can tell Lee that—"

"Don't," Oswald said quickly.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows high, surprised by his sudden reaction. Oswald recomposed himself and placed her hands against his heart, and she looked at him with a little smile.

"I know what this means to you," Oswald said softly.

"You know I never thought I could be a dancer or a singer until I met you?" Sylvia uttered lovingly. "I tried for the high school dance team for the longest time—qualified, but the dance coach didn't care for trouble makers…and after Jim went into the Army—with both him and Dad trying to convince me to go into law or police work, I guess I just lost interest in it all…"

Oswald felt his breath hitch and his stomach churn with little butterflies as Sylvia looked at him in the way he'd never want to forget: like he was her godsend, her hero—her eyes were wide like the moon, and the smile she only reserved for him alone made its way to her lips. Sylvia kissed him, softly…gently. The kiss, as gentle as it was, left him breathless.

"I forgot my dream until I met you, until you made me realize just what I could do with it," Sylvia uttered quietly.

Oswald smirked saying, "And to think you were terrified of going on stage."

"Hey, that was different," Sylvia returned coyly. "It was _really_ impromptu and—you know—singing a love song with a stranger was entirely…awkward."

Oswald chuckled at the way her face became bright pink. It was not often that he could make her blush, but when he managed to do it, he reveled in every second. Sylvia's smile widened when he caressed the sides of her face, pulling her back into another kiss. This one was not so tender; it was meaningful, and insistent. She returned it eagerly, and pressed her body against his.

"Wait…" Oswald mumbled.

Sylvia looked at him reprovingly.

"If we keep this up, I doubt I'll be able to stop," Oswald warned.

"No one is asking you to stop," Sylvia said, her voice was libidinous.

God, that low seductive timbre of hers always could flip a switch in him.

"You'll be late to your rehearsal," Oswald said, trying to ignore the fact that Sylvia was trailing kisses from the corner of his mouth, along his jaw, and to his earlobe where she nibbled gently.

At this point, he was hoping she wouldn't mind skipping the rehearsal. He cared about her obligation to Lee, and the whole dance ensemble, right? Or at least, he was making an effort to care…

To his satisfaction, Sylvia hissed, "Fuck the rehearsal…"

* * *

Oswald and Sylvia reconvened in the bedroom with Sylvia walking and undressing as quickly as her fingers could pull down her sweats. Oswald was in disrepair, struggling more as he had more layers of clothes to work with. He grumbled about his expensive tastes being something more of a bother than what was needed.

"Lie on the bed," Sylvia suggested as she turned to lock the door.

As he did, he admired her figure: her curves, the slightest movements of her arms that made the soft muscles along her toned back flex; the light dip of her back…she turned and walked towards him.

Oswald snickered when she pushed him on his back; his eyes looking up at her; the light in the bedroom, although dim, made Sylvia appear to be an angel…but only he knew just how much of an angel she was not.

Her fingers shuffled through the buttons without tearing off any of them, and yet, she was able to get them undone faster than he would have!

"Your hands work fast," Oswald noted plainly, trying to pretend that he wasn't ready to turn her on her back and fuck her to oblivion.

"Only when I want something," Sylvia responded airily; where the buttons met, they now separated, his coat, vest, and button-up shirt parting one by one as she undressed him; he helped her by shrugging them off.

She didn't stop as she unbuckled his belt, and snapped the zipper downward; he felt her wet mouth engulf the head of his cock.

"Oh, hell…" Oswald murmured, closing his eyes to the sensation.

He could feel her lips twisting into a smile as she continued massaging his cock with her tongue, taking him in inch by inch while she tugged his pants the rest of the way down his legs. Oswald moaned when he felt the vibrations of her snicker move through his shaft.

Without missing a beat, Sylvia sat on her knees, still sucking. Her tongue rolled around him; her head bobbed up and down, taking him deeper into her throat.

Oswald inhaled sharply when she felt her teeth ever so lightly graze his member; then her tongue swirled around him. Already, he could feel himself becoming undone; her mouth and tongue were enough to put him over the edge, but when he felt one of her hands begin to massage his balls, he shuddered with both satisfaction and desperation.

"If you keep doing that, I'm not going to last long, Pidge," Oswald groaned.

She let him go with a _pop_ , her tongue flicking over the slit of his cock before she said, "Wanna bet?"

Oswald glanced down his torso to see _that_ look, the mischief in those cerulean eyes; she _knew_ what she did to him. Shakily, he said, "I'll lose that bet."

Sylvia let out an evil little chuckle; at this angle, Oswald's legs hung off the bed; she straightened, standing between them, and then climbed on; her knees lied parallel to his stomach; his cock stood at attention and at the angle she sat, the pink flesh of her pussy was flush against it.

She slowly grazed her fingernails down his sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Oswald shuddered.

"You like that, don't you?" Sylvia whispered.

She ghosted her nails down his sides again and he stifled a needy moan, shutting his eyes tightly and gritting his teeth; with the combination of her teasing touch and that of her wet pussy slowly rubbing against his hard cock, Oswald was certain she was trying to kill him.

"Say you like it, or I will stop." Sylvia threatened.

Oswald's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates before he said quickly, "I like it—please don't stop…"

She slid one hand up his chest and collar bone, stopping at his throat. Entirely out of instinct, he involuntarily craned his head back, granting her access to his throat; Sylvia's hand wrapped around it: her thumb against one carotid while her index and middle finger pushed against the other.

"I like it when you say 'please'," Sylvia purred.

Her other hand baited his cock; holding him in her palm, her thumb slid over the slit of the head.

Softly, she uttered, "Small…concentric circles…"

Oswald didn't know what she meant until her thumb circled the head, coating him in his pre-cum. He had to bite his tongue so as to think of the pain instead of coming just from that alone. His face, neck, and chest were flushed pink with lust; but he was satisfied to see that she appeared the same; her pupils were blown, to the point where he searched them for the blue irises that still remained.

"Pigeon…"

"Mm?" She mewed.

She wiggled her butt, and the head of his cock peeped inside her wet entrance for just a few seconds before she lifted her hips and evaded him; Oswald's head craned back again; his fingers clutched the bed sheets.

"Say 'please' again."

"Pigeon…"

"Say it…" Sylvia said softly, but her tone had a commanding edge that Oswald couldn't ignore.

"Please…" Oswald moaned.

Her eyes flashed dangerously as she spoke lowly, saying once more: " _Again_."

Oswald repeated the word, like a mantra. The slow, perpetual grind of her pussy against his cock made him keen, and he soon found that there would be nothing he would deny her just to be inside of her. His imagination ran wild—how wet she would be, how tight her walls would clench and grasp onto him…how her legs would quiver by the time they were finished…

" _Sylvia_ ," Oswald exhaled sharply.

"Mmmm?" Sylvia hummed.

He held out his hands to take her hips, to gain some leverage, but she caught them and pinned them beside his head. She lowered her body onto his: her breasts on his chest, her hard, taut nipples teasing his own flesh.

 _Fuck…_

"Don't tease," Oswald said desperately, quickly adding, "Please…"

"Oh, sorry, sweetheart. I forgot _I_ 'm the one that likes being teased. Is someone not enjoying themselves?" Sylvia questioned; she made tsk-ing sounds, rolling her hips so his cockhead kissed the entrance of her dripping cunt. Furtively, she said, "You know, I hear marriage is all about compromise—is that what you hear too, Pet?"

Oswald nodded furiously—just agreeing with her, hoping that she would relent.

"I hear the compromise happens a lot on the husband's behalf," Sylvia mused, clicking her tongue.

He watched her intently as Sylvia released his wrist so she could slide two of her fingers inside her pussy, and then gingerly pulled them out. She held them up in front of his face, and smirked, saying, "This is all because of you, babe."

She smiled when she held them in front of his lips and he quickly took them into his mouth, sucking on her fingers. His tongue swirled around them; Sylvia bit her bottom lip and just how eager he appeared; his hungry eyes matching her own.

"You want to fuck me, don't you?" Sylvia questioned, grinning widely at him.

"Yes."

"What was that?"

"Yes."

"Sorry," Sylvia snickered. "You're going to have to speak a little louder for me…"

" _Yes_ , for **fuck's** sake!" Oswald growled.

Sylvia was surprised when he threw her hand off his own, grabbed her hips in a vice-like grip, and shoved his cock inside of her all the way, balls-deep. She let out a startled moan, then it lengthened to that of a high-pitched mewl. Oswald took advantage of her shock, turning them so Sylvia grinned up at him from her back.

"I forget how strong you are," Sylvia gasped.

Oswald crashed his mouth against hers, breathing in and swallowing all her glorious sounds as he thrusted deep inside of her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, giving him all the access he desired, and he took full priority in taking what was his.

He dug his fingers into her hips, holding her down as he fucked her.

"Osw—mm!" Sylvia's gasp was stifled by his hand, clamped firmly over her mouth.

Every part of her was dominated by him—not an ounce of her flesh remained untouched as Oswald greedily ran his free hand up and down her body. He relished in the way her hips would lift when he pulled out of her, the strength of her walls tightening to keep him inside when he thrusted in; the wet sounds of flesh slapping against flesh; and how her lips parted in lost focus, unable to keep up with his demanding kisses. When he bit her shoulder, Sylvia lost herself to the desire, engulfed by the only thing she could coherently fixate on—and that was reaching the peak of her climax.

She chased the dragon, quickly bucking her hips to meet his, pleading for him to make her come—or at least, that's what he assumed she was trying to scream through his palm. He tasted the sweat of her neck, the ceiling lamp of the bedroom shedding light on the soaking wet bodies that were their own.

Her vanilla perfume, his cologne, and the smell of sex filled the room; their panting, her muffled screams, and his moans and grunts were the only sounds eliciting from the bedroom.

When her legs quivered, her toes curled, and Sylvia's screams had become nothing more than unvoiced gasps, she'd orgasmed too many times to count; her pussy tightened around his swollen, aching member; Sylvia clawed her fingernails down his back as she reached another level, and her helpless squeaks for his own resolution made a powerful feeling come over him.

"Come inside me, baby, please…" Sylvia panted.

Her fingers raked through his hair, and when that didn't sway him, she pulled him down to her, so her lips captured his in desperate persuasion; he felt her hands on his back, nails digging.

After a few more thrusts, he couldn't last another second of hearing her pleas, Oswald let go of his restraint and in that moment, he allowed his own desire to completely take him; with Sylvia grabbing his hair and forcing his mouth onto hers, Oswald moaned as he came inside of her.

Within the minutes that followed, Oswald lied on top of her, smiling as she bore no resistance to him.

Sylvia liked his weight on top of her; she felt secure, and safe underneath. His head lied in the crook of her shoulder as he nuzzled his nose against her neck; she let out a content sigh. Wrapped in each other's arms, they were silent, gathering their breath. After a moment, she spoke.

"Do you want to go to the gala with me?" Sylvia asked. "There's going to be a magician."

Oswald lifted his head, looking at her: "You know I don't like magicians."

"Mm, you don't like riddles either," Sylvia pointed out. "There won't be any riddles, if that's any consolation."

"I still have work to do," Oswald said softly.

"I take it you're declining my invitation?"

"Yes."

"I figured you would," Sylvia said, shrugging; she smirked and said, "If you didn't have to work, would you come with me, even if there were a _thousand_ magicians standing in your way?"

"A thousand magicians in one room would be unlikely," said Oswald logically, "but nothing and no one would stand in my way of being with you."

Sylvia grinned widely: "Except for work."

"Pigeon…"

"I'm kidding," Sylvia giggled. "You're such a hopeless romantic, you know that, don't you?"

"More than anyone," Oswald admitted.

"I like it though."

"I'm glad you do."

"And I like _you_."

Oswald chuckled, "I like you too—this would be really awkward if we didn't like each other."

"Only _mildly_ awkward." Sylvia noted. "People who hate each other sometimes fuck each other."

"I've _never_ heard of that."

"You see it in movies."

"I can't see the benefit of doing such a thing."

Sylvia shrugged again, saying, "People can have chemistry even if they hate each other. Sex, in itself, is primarily physical: did you know that a human's eyes dilate when they see someone they love, but _also_ when they see someone they hate?"

"I _didn't_ know that," Oswald returned softly.

"It's a scientifically proven fact."

"Is it."

"Yep. Speaking of which…what if _I_ was a magician?" Sylvia questioned. "Would you still love me?"

"I would love you, no matter what you were." Oswald returned calmly.

"Your love knows no boundaries," Sylvia teased.

"Your humor knows none either."

Sylvia snickered, "Now you're just teasing."

Oswald smirked: "Guilty."

Sylvia sat up, stretching her arms; she glanced at her shoulder where he'd bit her and pouted, "I'm going to have to find some major concealer to hide that for the show."

Oswald shrugged, sitting up as well as he said, "A small price to pay. You weren't complaining."

Sylvia grinned, unabashed: "Touché, Husband."

She and Oswald dressed again for the day. Gabe had offered to drive her to the event. After the fact, they were running late for the rehearsal, but Sylvia didn't seem too hurried.

Oswald leaned into the passenger side, as she sat in the seat; Sylvia looked at him curiously.

She was dressed in all black—dress, heels, and all; she wore black lipstick and red eye shadow with winged eyeliner; the dance routine prepared at the gala was supposed to be filled with fire, and, above all, sporty moves and flashing lights…not unlike a rave. This was a festivity that adults would remember. Mr. Bell accompanied Oswald, more or less to bid Sylvia good luck. He was out of his sweats and wearing his usual black-on-white tuxedo.

"Knock 'em dead," Mr. Bell said, bowing his head to her. He handed her a coke. "For good luck, milady."

"Aw, really…you shouldn't have." Sylvia said playfully.

Gabe leaned in from the driver's side and handed her a four-leaf clover. Oswald sent the two men a curious glance before rolling his eyes, and kissing Sylvia on the cheek.

"Enjoy your meeting with the Families," Sylvia said. "I'm sure it will be boring as hell."

"Without you there, I assure you it will be," Oswald reassured. He glanced at Gabe, saying, "Don't let her out of sight, do you hear me?"

"I got it, Boss," Gabe said, nodding vigorously, holding up his right hand. "I vow to—"

"Don't be so dramatic, G." (She looked at Oswald, playfully scrunching her nose at him.) He's got it, Boss," Sylvia said, smirking. "You have _nothing_ to worry about, babe. It's a fucking charity event—what's the worst that can happen?"

Oswald forced himself _not_ to think about the many dreadful scenarios and he stepped back so Gabe could start the car. As they drove out of the driveway, Oswald watched after them; Sylvia's hand popped out of the window, waving good-bye.

"It seems she is in a better mood…"

Oswald turned his attention to Mr. Bell.

"It seems that way," Oswald agreed. After the car had vanished down the road, he said "Do you _really_ want her to seek out another trainer?"

"Of course not," said Mr. Bell, smiling politely. "I take great pleasure in mentoring Lady Cobblepot; she's a taste of fire, that one. But I can only teach her so much. I've not been in that line of business for so long, and times have changed since I was an agent—bigger enemies, bigger guns."

"You don't think your services suffice?" Oswald presumed, placing two hands atop the handle of his cane.

"Like I said," said Mr. Bell lowly, "I can only teach her so much. She has great potential—she can do so much more, and she can't improve where my latency is due. She needs a younger teacher; she deserves to have one who can keep up with her."

"You'd be surprised," said Oswald smoothly.

"Pardon, sir?"

Oswald said with a meaningful glance, "The difference between what she _deserves_ and what _**she**_ _wants_ are two separate ideals, Mr. Bell. You believe she deserves a greater teacher, but in her mind, _you_ are good enough."

Mr. Bell smiled modestly saying, "That's kind of her to think so then… _flattering_ , even."

"It is, isn't it?" Oswald said, nodding.

There was a five-second silence between them. Sensing a deeper meaning, he said lightly, "Should I be so bold…to assume that you feel the same way about _her_?"

Startled by the observation, Oswald gave him a once-over and played ignorant: "The same way about what?"

Mr. Bell said knowingly, "You believe she deserves a better suitor than you…you've probably even openly discussed that with her, but in her eyes, _you_ are enough."

Oswald pressed his lips together like he'd been caught in his own epiphany, but he readjusted, saying calmly, "You know…for a cook, you are far too perceptive."

Mr. Bell grinned and said, "I hear that too often, sir. For what it's worth, sir, I can't think of anyone more suited to the lady's personality than yourself."

"Meaning?"

"She's personable, down-to-earth, gets along with the staff and even befriends the people in your employ," observed Mr. Bell, "and that's the side most people get to see. But you and I are _very_ aware that she can be too impetuous and overzealous during times that call for patience and aloofness." (He placed a fatherly hand on Oswald's shoulder; a gesture that made Oswald look at him curiously, but not standoffish.) "You can be the same way, with all due respect, but…when she's furious, you are patient; and in times when you are inconsolable, _she_ is logical. I think that sort of companionship, that sort of _partnership_ , is hard to find just about anywhere."

Mr. Bell smiled but Oswald couldn't put a finger on the reason why he did. Mr. Bell was no common cook—in zeal and physicality. The intuition he possessed was far more calculating and intelligent than for what people gave him credit.

"Yin and Yang," Mr. Bell said finally as he started to go back to the mansion. "Perfect for a relationship, even better for a marriage."

Oswald followed him inside. If he was certain of it as he sure he was, Oswald could have guessed that Mr. Bell just offered him firsthand marriage advice. He didn't argue the point—Mr. Bell had been around the world, and probably had his own share of marital mishaps along the way.

"If she wants me to continue to be her mentor," said Mr. Bell, business-like, "I'll be more than happy to. A woman like that is hardly one I dare say 'no' to, either way. Now, if you would please excuse me…" He made a curt bow to Oswald. "I must check the roast; I'm assuming she informed you on tonight's plans?"

"Yes. She preferred to dine in," Oswald recalled.

"Oh, good. She _did_ tell you." Mr. Bell said, smirking. "I was hoping I didn't drop the ball on that one—she loves her surprises, doesn't she?"

"Only good ones," Oswald told him, smiling.

"Well, with the good, comes the bad." Mr. Bell said conversationally. "For example: I once came into a surprise party for my birthday and a young woman—bless her heart—came up behind me and shouted 'Happy Birthday!' and I was _so_ startled, I grabbed her neck and snapped it in three places." (Oswald stared at him.) "Now _that_ was a hard story to explain to the police."

Mr. Bell laughed at the memory, reminiscing the good old times and he casually strolled into the kitchen to continue preparing for tonight's plans. Oswald watched him, and made a mental note _not_ to come up from behind Mr. Bell at any given moment.


	14. Making Up

Chapter 14: Making Up

A/N: A thousand apologies for the long pause in updates. Depression hit me like a tidal wave, and I'm just trying to get through each day. But this story keeps me going, as do your reviews and messages, so thank you for always being there for me, my wonderful readers 😊

* * *

Sylvia sat in the passenger seat, while Gabe drove her to the Children's Charity gala, hosted by Dr. Leslie Thompkins; as promised, she was on her way to the gala to perform the dance which would introduce the magician (whomever this person was). Lee liked performance art; magicians, circuses—you name it. Sylvia expected that there would be talent scouts in the audience—it was a rich man's world, and if one were optimistic, Sylvia's dream of becoming a world-famous performer was just out of reach.

Her dance team was comprised of a number of individuals: some she had picked from the street, a few worked at her club (Tiffany Rubberdale was one of them), and others had heard she was incorporating fire in the dance so the pyro-fanatics (namely, Henry) had volunteered to be a part of it, thus creating her ambitious team of acrobatics and adamant dancers. Most of them did it because Sylvia was the lead; others, like Henry, found their own underlying ambitions (he wanted to impress Tiffany).

The rehearsal, she'd missed, but Sylvia had no doubt about the dance going off without a hitch. She had led them through the steps countless times, and the rehearsals had gone on for hours, almost every day at the club.

Her thoughts relied solely on getting to the actual event.

Sensing that Sylvia was in a travesty of nervous thoughts, Gabe silently leaned forward in the driver's seat and flicked on the radio. Some static swarmed the first few channels he turned to (making Sylvia smile a little) and he finally stopped on the first channel that didn't have the grainy voices. Gabe hoped to take her mind off whatever was bugging her; even if it meant listening to the news.

"More on the devastating tragedy at the Gotham City Police Department…."

Sylvia felt a sudden panic. She turned up the volume.

The news reporter stated, "7 police officers, including our very own newly promoted Commissioner Sarah Essen died two days ago when Jerome Valeska, the ringleader of the Maniax, invaded Gotham's own police department…"

"Gabe, turn around." Sylvia ordered.

"You're going to be late for the dance…"

Sylvia's eyed flashed dangerously.

"Alright, alright," Gabe said quickly, and he changed lanes and made a U-turn to head towards the station. "I'm turning around, I'm turning around…"

"I'm going to try calling Jim…" Sylvia muttered quickly. She pulled out her phone, and saw that he hadn't even called or messaged her for the past two days—everything had been so hectic, she didn't think to listen to the news or the radio or anything…

Sylvia hit the number 2 speed dial, and waited. And waited.

"Fuck, he's not answering. Drive faster, Gabe."

"I'm driving, I'm driving…." Gabe said, nodding vigorously. "There's a stop light, do you want me—"

"My brother could be in trouble, or worse dead—will you just _drive for_ _ **fuck's**_ sake…"

Gabe gunned the gas and the car shot past two patrol cars without stopping. Sylvia continued to dial Jim's phone when he didn't answer.

"He's not answering," Sylvia said harshly. "Why isn't he answering?"

"It's been two days since this thing happened," Gabe offered cautiously. "Maybe's he's busy with other things."

"Or he's fucking dead and no one bothered to tell me because they know I was pissed off at him for not coming to my own fucking wedding," Sylvia growled.

"I can't tell if you're mad at them for not calling, if you're mad at Gordon for not coming, or if you're mad at yourself for feeling mad about this…" Gabe said, confused, but the dangerous flash of her eyes met his and he was quick to pipe down.

"Just _drive_ , Gabriel."

"Yes, ma'am." Gabe said, nodding obediently; he didn't say anything else, lest he make her angrier.

He was afraid of Penguin when he was pissed off, but Sylvia was the sleeping dragon he dared not poke in the eye.

Sylvia left a voicemail when the tenth phone call didn't go through; her voice was shaking, and on edge: "James, this is your sister. Pick up your fucking phone, and call. Me. Back!"

The car came to a strikingly sharp halt in front of the GCPD.

"Stay here," Sylvia ordered.

Gabe nodded, once more obedient. He silently protested that it would be in his interest out of personal health and preservation to go inside with her in any case one of the Maniax were still inside, but at the same rate: he didn't want to upset her any further. Sylvia, wearing her performing clothes and in her radiant glory, stormed inside the GCPD; anger was a great mask to the fear that had been roiling inside her belly, and made her arms feel like jelly.

She saw the caution tape over Commissioner Essen's door. The event happened two days ago, but even though the bodies had been taken to the morgue, and the trashed station had been cleaned up, the atmosphere was very different. This was the House—the sanctuary of cops, and it had been violated. Someone just came in and made it a war zone…if that wasn't a violation of privacy…

"JIM!" Sylvia shouted. "Jim!"

Alvarez quickly came to her side, and he looked her up and down, a little taken aback by her attire, but otherwise, took her shoulder.

"Sylvia, it's okay—"

"I heard what happened on the radio," Sylvia said quickly. "Where's Jim? Is he—?"

God, she couldn't even think to begin to say the word!

When Alvarez only answered her with a confused expression, Sylvia threw him from her.

"Jim Gordon! Where is he?" Sylvia addressed the entire station.

One of the officers began to speak, but then…

Harvey Bullock approached her from behind, dressed in his detective attire; even as a cop, he didn't care for shaving. Sylvia stared at him, surprised to see him in this station of all places.

"What are you doing here?" Sylvia questioned.

"I could ask you the same thing—you're freaking out, what the hell is wrong?"

"I heard what happened on the radio," Sylvia said, gesturing to the little appliance sitting on Alvarez' desk. At this point, she was close to tears and her voice shook hard: "The Maniax, and Valeska, and-and Sarah…"

"He's okay," Harvey said, holding his hands out to gracefully touch her shoulders, urging her to take a seat at his desk. "Jim is _fine_."

"He's alive?"

"Alive and pissed off, but alive." Harvey reassured.

The door to the GCPD's entrance opened and Jim was on the phone, talking to whomever about business items. When he saw Sylvia on the balcony, crying, and speaking with Harvey who was sitting in front of her, Jim said to the other line on the phone, "I'll call you back", and then jogged up the stairs to see Sylvia.

She looked up at him, first in shock. Then she stood, and at first, Jim was certain she was going to give him a right hook like before, but instead, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly to her.

Harvey raised his eyebrows, having never seen such affection come from her…at least not with her own brother. There was a moment of awkwardness where Jim didn't know what to do either, but patted Sylvia's head.

"I thought you were dead…" Sylvia whispered; she stepped back away from him, giving him his personal space.

Jim smiled saying, "I'm a survivor, Vee. You know that."

"I didn't know what to think." Sylvia said, gesturing the station in general. "When I heard what happened, that was the first thing I thought of."

"How sweet," Harvey said, relaxing his face into his palm. "This is one of those special moments where the audience would go 'awwwww', and then we just melt like butter."

"You're ruining that moment, Harvey—no one likes it when you break the fourth wall," Sylvia pointed out.

"Nah—I figure the only thing that would pull you two back to each other is death. It has a way of erasing past mistakes," Harvey sighed.

"That's poetic. Are you drunk?" Sylvia questioned.

Harvey held up an aluminum flask: "Nope, but working on it."

Jim and Sylvia rolled their eyes. Jim looked at Sylvia.

"I'm truly sorry for not having come to your wedding," Jim said, addressing the elephant in the room. "I should have."

"You _should_ have." Sylvia reaffirmed, her temper rising. However, after a moment, she said quietly, "But in the light of everything that could have happened, I'm not so angry anymore. You could have died, and I never want you to die with a fight being our last conversation."

"What if you died first?" Harvey asked, pointing at Sylvia. "You're talking like _Jim_ will be the one to die first between you two."

"He's a cop," said Sylvia, gesturing to Jim. "He'll die before me."

"Your life isn't exactly sunshine and rainbows either, pussycat," Harvey reminded. "Speaking of which…why are you dressed like that?"

Sylvia crossed her arms saying, "I'm performing at the Children's Charity gala. There's going to be a magician—"

"—Lee told me that," Jim chimed in.

"And my team is introducing him."

"Dance team, yay," Harvey said in false cheer. "Are they going to do some flips, and cheers?"

"Don't tease," Sylvia said, smirking. "You pretend you don't want to go, but you want to see me dance the twirl more than anyone, don't you, Harvey?"

"Guilty," Harvey said. "You look good in that, by the way." He eyeballed her dress. "Black is _definitely_ your color."

"Harvey!" Jim chastised.

"Yeah, I might be drunk now," Harvey admitted, smirking at him. "But she _does_ look good, Jim. Jim…Jim! Come on!" (Jim turned and started walking away). "You _do_ look good, Liv."

"Thanks, Harvey." Sylvia said, smiling at him.

"Jim!" Harvey shouted, walking after her brother. "Come on, you _know_ your sister is hot!"

Sylvia chuckled and quickly walked out of the station, hurried now. She and Gabe would arrive _just_ in time for the dance to be introduced, and that's if they ran all the red lights. Sylvia clambered into the vehicle, and closed the door.

"How's your brother?"

"We made up," Sylvia answered. "He's alive."

"I figured he was."

"Well, you can 'figure' all you want, but I had to know for certain."

"Do you want me to run the red lights on the way to the thing as well?" Gabe asked.

"Well, we might be a few minutes late if we don't…"

Gabe took that as a 'yes' and ran all the red lights. Thankfully, most of the traffic was down to a minimum so not many cars had to come to a screeching halt and give them the middle finger.


	15. Magic Tricks

Chapter Fifteen: Magic Tricks

Author's Note: Song featured in this song is called _Grace for Sale,_ a song featured in the movie, 'Devil's Carnival'. I suggest listening to it, it's pretty awesome 😊. Thank you for your patience; my depression has subsided for the time being, and I will updating at least every weekend. This was a chapter that took a few re-writes but I think, over all, it went well! I apologize for any of the grammatical errors.

* * *

Sylvia arrived at the Children's Charity gala in record time; she stepped out of the car, and thanked Gabe for his help. She let him go, telling him to come back within the next hour. By that time, the dance would be over, and Lee would be introducing the magician.

"You don't want to stay for that?" Gabe asked, starting the car once more.

Sylvia smiled, saying, "It really depends on how the night goes. I'll call you."

"Sounds good," said Gabe, and he drove off.

Sylvia smoothed down her dress, and started walking towards the building. Standing in five-inch heels was hard enough as it is, although she had to commend herself for such an effort. While she'd primarily worn dresses to receive the longing looks Oswald sent her when he saw her in them, Sylvia was grateful that she'd worn heels so frequently; otherwise, walking up the rain-soaked stairs might have been a daunting task.

Entering the building was a sight all on its own. Sylvia reckoned the annual charity would have been less packed, but as she sifted through the entrance, she was a bit taken aback to see so many faces. Most of them, she didn't recognize; and why on earth would she? It wasn't as though she spent her time kissing rich people's asses all day. However, a few she _did_ recognize: one of them was the Deputy Mayor, doing his best to act in the Aubrey James' stead. Another was…

"Bruce Wayne!" Sylvia drawled, smirking widely when she recognized that young man's face.

And he was accompanied by his butler, Alfred Pennyworth. The last time she saw the two of them was back in the hospital; standing on his feet, Alfred looked a great deal better than when she last saw him, lying in a hospital bed. Bruce Wayne was dressed as handsome as ever; for a child, he certainly cleaned up well!

Hearing his name, Bruce turned and smiled politely at Sylvia, recognizing her.

"Miss Gordon," Bruce recalled.

It wasn't hard to tell that Bruce was here against his will. For a billionaire, he certainly didn't fit the reputation of a spoiled brat; instead, he was unusually modest, polite, and looked more than ever like he would have wanted to be in his mansion instead of schmoozing the public. Despite his underwhelming sense of presence, Bruce was ready to shake her hand.

He did so, and Sylvia smirked at the two of them.

"Do you come here often?" Sylvia teased.

"My parents were patrons of the charity," Bruce explained, glancing at Alfred to verify the information; Alfred nodded in agreement, so Bruce added, "So, I'm here too…now…I guess."

"It's nice to get out from time to time," Alfred offered, smiling kindly at Sylvia. "I apologize in advance, but may I ask why…" He gestured to her attire.

"I'm starting a new trend," Sylvia joked, smiling broadly. "Actually, in all seriousness, I'm performing on stage. My team and I are introducing the magician."

"Ah yes, I do hear there will be a magician," chuckled Alfred. "Bruce loves magicians, don't you, Bruce?"

"You know I don't." Bruce reminded calmly, glaring at him passively.

"Do you like fire tricks?" Sylvia asked, paying no mind to the awkward silent argument between them.

"I can take it or leave it, to be honest, Miss Gordon," Bruce said.

Sylvia didn't care to tell the billionaire or his butler that she was technically no longer 'Miss Gordon', but rather 'Mrs. Cobblepot'. It didn't seem important at this given time; instead, she let it go, and smiled when Alfred glanced at Bruce a little irritably. Bruce Wayne was as honest as they come: a breath of fresh air, really.

"Fire is a part of the dance performance," said Sylvia, gesturing to the stage. "You see those torches right there, at the front?"

Bruce and Alfred turned to glance in the direction where she was pointing; five metal spouts were hidden discreetly from view along the front of the stage.

"Fire will be coming out of those spigots," said Sylvia. "Towards the end of the song, I'll be set on fire. It's actually quite fun."

"That sounds dangerous," Alfred offered, raising his eyebrows.

"What's life without a little danger," Sylvia returned with a wink, earning a small smile from Bruce.

"Do you know how to do the 'robot'?" Alfred asked, smiling charmingly. "I know a few moves myself, you know."

"Not necessarily." Sylvia returned. "I lean a little more on the side of 'Pussycat Dolls' than Mr. Roboto."

"Well then," chuckled Alfred, "I guess that _will_ be quite a show then, won't it?"

Sylvia chuckled at the shade of pink that flushed all over Alfred's face before she held out her hand to shake both of theirs, stating, "As fun as this conversation is, I'm afraid I have to cut it short. I still have to brief my dance peeps before we go out on stage; there's quite an audience here, and some of them have a little stage fright."

"Of course, of course, don't let us keep you!" Alfred exclaimed, and he stepped aside to allow her to pass.

Alfred watched after her.

"She's married now, you know," Alfred pointed out.

Bruce looked at him curiously saying, "I know. It was in the newspaper."

"Then why on Earth did you insist on calling her 'Miss Gordon'?"

"Why were you flirting with her?" Bruce questioned stoically.

"I was _not—"_

"Your face turned the shade of a watermelon, Alfred," Bruce said, smirking at him. "Especially when she mentioned she dances like one of the Pussycat dolls."

"Well, I…Now, see here…"

Bruce rolled his eyes, smirking at him before walking forward with his butler following him, stammering his excuses.

* * *

"Oh my god, I am _so_ nervous," Tiffany mumbled for the thirtieth time. Dressed similar like Sylvia, only wearing leggings underneath her dress, Tiffany was walking back and forth in a nervous pace, wringing her black-gloved hands as she glanced behind the heavy velvet curtain at the audience.

"There are so many of them, Henry," Tiffany whispered, glancing at the young man wearing a black shirt and pants as well as a dark purple cumber-bun. "I don't even know _why_ I told Sylvia I would do this with her…I can't even talk in the microphone to tell people their car has been towed, never the less be in a dance routine—I know I'm going to trip and fall, or worse!"

"Worse than tripping over your own feet?" Henry offered, glancing down at Tiffany's heels. "You look good, by the way."

Tiffany gave him a look that described her insecurity perfectly. Tiffany _did_ look good in her black flowing dress, and her make-up made her look like a goddess, but despite what people told her and Henry's opinion which seemed to matter little at the moment, Tiffany was convinced that not only would she mess up the entire performance but she also looked like a toad. Her naked shoulders were gleaming under the backlight.

"God, where is Sylvia?" Tiffany hissed. "I need to tell her I'm quitting. I can _not_ do this. I was so stupid to think I could—"

"You're not going anywhere."

Tiffany turned, glancing at Sylvia who strode up the five steps of the stairway; she wasn't even halfway up the last before Tiffany jumped forward and wrapped her sweaty arms around Sylvia's middle.

"Oh my god, I thought you were lost on the way…" Tiffany began.

Sylvia inhaled sharply as Tiffany's hug tightened like a python grip around her middle.

"Let me guess," Sylvia mumbled painfully. "You had a bunny, but not anymore."

Tiffany let her go, glaring at her incredulously.

"This isn't the time for your dark jokes!" Tiffany said sharply. "I'm _freaking_ out over here! You weren't at rehearsal—I damn near had a heart attack. I thought you died in a car crash or-or-or—"

Sylvia suddenly slapped her across the face. Henry stepped forward angrily but one of the other male dancing counterparts snatched his arm really quick before the young man could do something he would later regret. Abashed by the assault, Tiffany held her face where Sylvia had slapped her, and reproachfully looked at her boss.

"First things first," Sylvia said calmly, but her voice was firm. "You need to calm the fuck down. Second: I get that you're a little upset and you're nervous, but please mind the way you talk to me, okay? I've had a _long_ day, so please keep your tone polite, alright? Third: I'm sorry for slapping you, but you really do need to calm down and that was the only way I would have been able to make that happen. Clear?"

Tiffany mumbled, "Crystal."

"Now," said Sylvia, "I get it. Everyone is nervous. I completely understand. But now is not the time to let our nerves get the best of us. Okay?"

Tiffany nodded. Henry lowered his fists to his side, and glared at her.

"I can't dance worth shit," Henry stated.

"You've danced wonderfully back at the club," said Sylvia. "You just need to remember where your feet are. Everyone here is not a professional dancer—I think we've all discovered that. Good lord, if I could count the times we sprained a wrist or ankle, I wouldn't have near enough hands to do so" (the performers around her tittered in appreciation for the humor). "We've all been under a great deal of pressure, and I appreciate all the hard work you've put into this for this dance performance—and all the hard work you've done for me."

Josh, one of the performers Sylvia had taken off the street, raised his hand. He was about 18 years old, skinny like a twig, but strong as an ox. His role was picking up Tiffany (a role Henry envied greatly), and he was excellent in his footwork. Seeing his hand raised, Sylvia looked at him expectantly.

"Can we go out and eat after this?" Josh asked.

Food. That was all this kid thought about. Granted, he'd been on the street for some time. His eyes were a little dead panned, but that was from all the grisly things he'd experienced in his time living on the streets; his nose was abnormally large, and his hands too; otherwise, he was a nice-looking kid who just loved to eat.

"Sure," said Sylvia, nodding. "We'll all get something to eat after this, how about that?"

Everyone cheered.

"So, when Dr. Thompkins introduces us, we are going out there; remember your steps, your twirls, and _you_ keep up with the music, not the other way around." Sylvia briefed. "On the last chorus, the fire spigots are going off and I will be set on fire…" (Tiffany and Henry glanced uneasily at each other) "But, please remember, keep doing as you're doing because I will be in no danger; this dress is fire-retardant."

"I sure hope someone is going to video tape this," Henry muttered.

"When the last note ends," Sylvia continued, "someone cover me with their cape—Tiffany, I'll leave that up to you. When I'm completely covered, the floor beneath me will drop open and it will give the illusion that I 'disappeared'. Thus, introducing the magician: everyone got it?"

Josh raised his hand again.

"Yes?" Sylvia called on him.

"Are you _sure_ your dress is fire-retardant? What if someone switched it for—"

"She's not stupid enough to fall for the bait-and-switch deal," Henry said coldly. "Stop worrying about her, Josh. Goddamn…"

Sensing the hostility between Henry and Josh, Sylvia cleared her throat, pulling the attention from the latter to herself, saying, "I'll be fine, everyone. We've practiced this at rehearsal a hundred times."

"At least!" joked one of the performers.

The others tittered at the joke, calming them down. From behind the curtain, Sylvia and her team could hear Dr. Lee Thompkins' voice coming from the other side. She was introducing them as their team name 'Fire Bugs', considering their dance routine involved fire (real fire, not fake).

"I'm so nervous," Tiffany muttered.

"Don't be," Henry reassured. "You've got this."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, nauseated by the sweetness. If she listened to anymore of this sweetness, she would get diabetes.

 _Grace for Sale_ (played on a booming speaker) roared inside the room and that was the cue for all of Sylvia's dancers to head on stage. The dance itself consisted of sharp movements, complicated footwork; Sylvia burst through the heavy curtain, serving as the center of the six other performers. While the lyrics boomed…

 _A sheep has left the fold_

 _Hoof beats go trotting, trotting_

 _Up to heaven, bold_

 _At the gates, knocking knocking_

 _Sheep in wolfish clothing_

 _Holy jaws are dropping_

 _Up in Heaven's hold_

 _Plant in my hooves, my hooks, my books_

The dance took on a dark interpretation of madness and chaos.

 _Once upon a time_

 _Heaven was a towered tower_

 _Tethered in its pride_

 _Castor's grace is sour, sour_

 _Thought the ink was dried_

 _But hellish gardens flowered_

 _Ivy to be climbed_

 _Spread my filth, my wings, my weeds, my weeds_

The audience whispered, pleased at the oddity of the dance. The lights above them flickered, changing colors of red and yellow, making it appear like they were being engulfed in fire. Sylvia glanced at their faces, all bewildered, but amazed.

"Pick it up," Sylvia instructed. "Faster—and mind your feet!"

 _My fairest wheels are turning_

"My feet are killing me," Tiffany moaned.

Sylvia rolled her eyes and made a scathing noise. Of all days to complain…

 _Tongues, Tongues_

 _Slither in the mud_

 _Slighter in the mud_

 _That's a carnival grows, my son_

 _That's a carnival grows_

The lights above the audience flickered red and orange again. Sylvia could feel her body becoming sore, and her ankles were screaming. But that bass—she could feel it jumping through her entire body, and the sounds of awe coming from the audience kept her calves popping.

 _Tongues tongues_

 _Slither in the psalms_

 _Slither in the psalms_

 _That's a carnival grows my son_

 _That's how a carnival grows_

For a fourth time, the lights flickered red, orange, and yellow. And that was the cue. Sylvia snapped her fingers. In the dance, an interpretation of madness and escalating chaos, Henry grabbed his lighter from inside his jacket and quickly set the material on Sylvia's sleeve on fire.

The audience screamed in fright, but as the dancers separated in a circle around her, Sylvia became a spinning human torch. The fire rose and rose above her, tickling the heat lamps above, giving the illusion that the fire was greater than it really was. Seeing that it was part of the show, the audience had stopped screaming, and instead, clapped, rising to their feet, and whistled in amazement.

"Holy fucking hell," Henry muttered.

"Now, Tiffany!" Josh snapped, looking fearfully on as Sylvia's dress became completely engulfed in the fire.

"Not yet!" Tiffany squeaked. "She has to lie down first!"

"Fuckers, the audience can hear us!" Henry snapped, pointing at the crowd.

"No, they can't—they're cheering too loudly!" Tiffany said, glancing uneasily at the crowd.

"Can she really burn this long?" Josh asked in undertone.

They, along with their other dancing counterparts, knelt down and made bowing motions to the woman that was dancing in the fire. Her arms were lit with red and orange, and it was only when she knelt down in the flame did Tiffany pull off her cape and dramatically put it over Sylvia's body.

When the audience piped down to see what would happen next in both anticipation and slightly fear, Tiffany stood to her feet and pulled the cape off Sylvia.

Sylvia had disappeared.

Henry grinned broadly, both pleased and surprised that the illusion was actually pulled off. When the crowd realized the magic trick, they were all in a frenzied applause. Tiffany, Henry, Josh, and the others bowed at the waist.

In mid-bow, Tiffany hissed, "Where did Sylvia go?"

"Below us." Henry reminded. "Remember, the floor drops."

"I hope she's okay," Josh muttered. "The heat coming off her was pretty hot."

"It's fire, you idiot," Henry said poignantly. "Of course, it is going to be hot."

"I'm just saying," said Josh as they bowed once more, "That was a risky move."

"Well, Sylvia is a risky woman," Henry stated. "If you knew her as long as Tiffany and me have, you wouldn't be worried."

Underneath the floorboard, Sylvia pulled off the plastic-like material that had crusted onto her dress. In all retrospect, she'd burned a lot longer than what she might have thought; Henry had set her on fire thirty seconds too soon, and to avoid any mistakes for the wiser, she'd let it melt her dress. Despite it all, Sylvia could hear the whooping and hollering from the adults in the audience, and was pleased at the way things had turned out.

Aside from a few first degree burns on her thighs from where the dress had latched itself onto her (instead of freely flowing like it should have), she couldn't have hoped for a better performance. Seeing the risk, she'd taken to make it a memorable moment, Sylvia guessed that those talent scouts in the audience would be asking for her name in due time.

Sylvia walked through the underground floorboards and lifted and sifted up through the hatch, pushing it up and finding herself on the other side of the stage. Tiffany saw her first and quickly ran to her side.

"Are you okay?" Tiffany asked breathlessly.

"Peachy." Sylvia answered, shrugging her shoulders.

Tiffany brushed some ashes off Sylvia's cheek; Sylvia thought it was an odd thing for her to do, but didn't think much on it when Tiffany smiled in spite of her fear.

"You make a lovely dancing torch," Tiffany noted, smirking at her. "One would think you were one with the flames."

Josh noticed Sylvia on the other side of the stage and started towards her as well. Sylvia smirked when he hugged her middle; the young man, although eighteen years old, was taller than she (almost everyone was taller than her), but the way he looked at her was similar to the way a son looked at his long-lost mother.

"Bring her on stage," said Tiffany, pushing Sylvia towards the center.

When the audience saw who had orchestrated the entire thing, they clapped and raised their hands and jumped. Sylvia did a curtsy, grinning at them all.

Dr. Thompkins joined her on stage; Henry, Tiffany, and Josh stepped back and Lee looked at Sylvia as though she'd just lost her breath before taking it back.

"You were fantastic, Sylvia!" Lee gushed, holding a microphone. She turned to the audience and said, "Wasn't she?"

People hooted and hollered, whistling.

"Sylvia Cobblepot, everyone," Lee said, taking Sylvia's wrist and raising it above her head. "Fire Dancer!"

Sylvia blushed at all the attention she was receiving.

"You had me scared to pieces," Lee said quietly, placing the microphone out of ear shot so the others wouldn't hear. "You lit yourself on _fire_ —when I said I wanted something amazing, I didn't really mean _that_."

"Well, it _was_ amazing," Sylvia reminded, smirking at her.

"If Jim ever found out that I asked you to light yourself on fire, he'd break up with me."

"Well, it was _my_ idea," Sylvia said smoothly. "You wanted something memorable, something folks would like to see. I got you that much."

"I was hoping for like a disappearing act, or something to do with mirrors," Lee specified.

"This is Gotham," said Sylvia, lowering her hand and smirking at Lee. "People in Gotham have seen everything. If you want to 'wow' them, you have to do something they've never seen before."

"Well, setting yourself on fire was definitely new," Lee said, grinning widely. "You might have outshined the magician though."

"Magic is magic," said Sylvia.

"Will you stay for it?" asked Lee.

"The magician?"

"Yes—I hear he's pretty good."

"Why not. But if he sets _himself_ on fire, I'm going to have to ask for a royalty check."

"Speaking of which," said Lee, "remind me to get my checkbook—I'll have to pay you."

"I told you I didn't want money."

"You put your life on the line, it's the least I can do," Lee said quickly.

Sylvia glanced at the audience, at the many people who had just witnessed her belly dance like a torched goddess. Perhaps it had been a great risk to take, but Sylvia had never felt more powerful being set on fire than when she had performed anywhere else. The act itself had been worth it all, but since she was trying to make it as a performer, perhaps it was due time to get paid for what she was good at doing.

"Fine," said Sylvia. "But later."

"Fine then."

Sylvia strolled off stage, rubbing her arms and wrist. Perhaps she'd gotten more burns than what she'd thought; her thighs hurt, sure, but as the lights lifted to their original fluorescent hues, Sylvia saw that her skin had turned pink from the burning flames.

"Definitely getting paid," Sylvia muttered.

She turned and moved back stage. Tiffany, Henry, and Josh were waiting for her.

"Ready?" Tiffany asked.

"Ready for what?" Sylvia asked.

"To go to dinner," Henry reminded. "You said we'd all go…"

"I've decided to stay for the magician," Sylvia said, smiling. "But you all are more than free to go. Here…" From the inside of her dress, she pulled out a money clip that had more than enough for two nights out in Gotham. "Take this, get what you like. And again, thank you for all your hard work."

"You're not coming with us?" Tiffany asked, crestfallen.

"Like I said," said Sylvia. "I'm staying for the magician."

"Fine by me," said Henry, shrugging. He smiled charmingly at Tiffany, holding his arm out to her, "My lady?"

Tiffany looked at Sylvia who nudged her forward with her eyes and Tiffany placed her hand on Henry's arm. She and Henry strolled off, leaving Josh alone with her.

"Do you want me to go too?" Josh asked quietly.

"You can stay or go—it's up to you what you do tonight, kid," Sylvia said, shrugging. "Do you like magicians?"

"Not really. I find their illusions to be more for kids than adults."

"You _are_ a kid."

Josh shrugged, saying, "I guess I will go with Tiffany and Henry. But they're kind of getting close, if you know what I mean."

"Being a third wheel, huh?" Sylvia guessed.

"Something like that."

"Well, being a third wheel can be pretty fun too. Cock blocking is like a sport," Sylvia said, smirking mischievously. "I couldn't help but see that Henry was being a bit of a prick to you earlier."

"He's just jealous because I was partnered up with Tiffany."

"So, you _don't_ want to cockblock Henry?"

"Won't he hurt me if I do?"

"Damn, kid, you need to live a little," said Sylvia, shaking her head. "Henry is too forward, too direct and Tiffany likes subtlety. You could help those two along if you're the chaperone, you know. Henry will be a little more behaved, and Tiffany won't feel the need to be more than accommodating."

Josh gave Sylvia a curious look saying, "Why are you telling me this?"

"You're socially awkward," Sylvia said, pointing to him. "You want to be their friend, but you don't know how, and you're talking to _me_ because you like to feel useful, wanted—something living on the streets doesn't give you."

"Are you always this blunt and straightforward?" Josh asked.

"Spend more time around me, kiddo, and you'll expect nothing else from me," Sylvia reassured. "But you know I am right. I know I'm right. I'm providing you a chance to be social with Tiffany and Henry. But, if you don't want to feel socially obligated, I can give you the order to go out and eat at a restaurant with Tiffany and Henry."

"How would ordering me to go out and have fun make this any easier?" Josh asked.

"I can fire you and put you back on the street if that's not enough motivation," Sylvia offered calmly.

Josh stared at her. Sure enough, Sylvia had hired him indefinitely to be a dancer on her team; after he auditioned and shown that he had the legs to work with and the drive, Josh had originally gone on board with the promise of a homecooked meal. For the past few weeks, he had happily come to work (AKA her club) to rehearse to get those three meals a day, but now, he had come to work just to see Sylvia. Despite her unpredictable mood swings and violent temper, Sylvia was otherwise personable, and friendly. Her motherly way about her had made Josh more than ready to do whatever she wanted.

Josh could see that Sylvia was trying to help him get more friends—he liked Tiffany enough, but Henry was a bully in his mind. But it was then when Sylvia threatened to send him back to the streets that he could see why Henry and Tiffany both feared and respected their boss.

"No," Josh said quietly. "You don't have to do that."

"I don't _want_ to fire you and put you on the streets," Sylvia said calmly. "But I'm giving you what you want—which is friendship. But you can't just be 'friends' with me, Josh. You have to have other friends as well. Tiffany is nice enough. Henry is rough around the edges, but you get used to it."

Josh stepped forward and hugged Sylvia once more. It lasted a lot longer than what was deemed necessary or comfortable, but knowing Josh was socially awkward made it somehow bearable.

"Thank you, Miss Sylvia," Josh said quietly. "Should I come to the club tomorrow?"

"We're not practicing tomorrow," Sylvia informed. "Take tomorrow off."

"Can I spend my day off at your club though?"

Sylvia cocked her head to the side.

"Sure," she said softly. "Sure, you can. Come by tomorrow—I might just find a position for you. But no drinking: You're not 21 yet, and I may be breaking plenty of laws, but I won't break that one."

"Yes, ma'am." Josh said.

"JOSH!"

Josh and Sylvia glanced up to see Henry and Tiffany waving their hands impatiently.

"We're going to 'Rover's'—get your ass over here so we can go already!" Henry shouted.

"Rough around the edges, indeed," Josh muttered.

Sylvia smirked as Josh lumbered forward and after Henry, who wrapped his arm around Tiffany's waist; the trio moved out and Sylvia rubbed her neck, standing in the back stage. She found a full-length mirror, and looked at her reflection, pulling her hair out of the tightened bun and allowing her red locks to fall around her shoulders.

"Ooh, lookie, it's another ginger."

Sylvia could hear the accent, but didn't recognize the voice. She turned to see a young man, dressed in theatrical clothes and adorning a red beard. It looked fake for all its intended (or perhaps unintended) purposes, but Sylvia assumed that this dramatic looking man was the alleged magician.

"Who are you?" Sylvia questioned.

"That's not important," he said in (was it Italian?) the accent. "I want to know… _who are_ _ **you**_?"

He took her hand and kissed the back, making smacking noises with his lips as he said, "Mm, scrumptious!"

Sylvia chuckled. A magician, and a comedian.

"I'm the Great Rudolpho," said the young man. "And it was a _pleasure_ watching your act. I've never seen such passion for the theatre. Setting yourself on fire was a nice touch."

"Well, you know, whatever makes the audience gasp in shock—seems to make the papers around here." Sylvia stated.

"Well, I know _I_ gasped in shock and _awe_ ," Rudolpho corrected. "And I am _awe-fully_ pleased to have met you."

Sylvia snorted at the pun, but was otherwise charmed. He kissed her hand again and Sylvia left him to his preparation. She was now a part of the crowd, standing in the same black dress, although less flame-retardant. Red eyeshadow and winged eyeliner had somehow managed to stay intact despite the heat, and Sylvia made a note to leave a five-star review for the makeup companies.

"So how do you go from being in the Royal Marines, to being a butler?"

Sylvia heard Lee's familiar voice and she followed it, smirking when she saw that Lee was talking to Alfred Pennyworth; Bruce was absent at the moment and with the conversation that followed, Sylvia was grateful that he was. Alfred was making an awkward attempt to ask Lee out on a date; unknown to him, of course, that Lee was already taken by Sylvia's brother. A good person might have excused Alfred from the inevitable embarrassment when he found out Lee was taken, but Sylvia was a frequent visitor of mischief; she stood on the wayside, smirking to herself when the conversation continued; she stood behind Alfred, and occasionally, Lee glanced at her in hopes that Sylvia might cease the conversation, but to no avail.

"You have the most beautiful eyes," Alfred began.

Lee chuckled and said, "Wow, okay…look, thank you but…"

And like a life saver, Bruce stepped in and said quickly, "I'd like to go now, Alfred."

Since the billionaire boy was going to make an entrance to save Lee, Sylvia figured she might as well join the crowd and she popped in as well.

"Hello, hello again!" Sylvia said, grinning at the trio. "And here are we again—reunited."

Alfred glanced at Sylvia and said lightly, "And without third degree burns—it's like magic!"

Sylvia smirked, saying, "I'm full of surprises."

"No doubt that you are," Alfred said, smiling back at her.

"I'd like to go, Alfred," Bruce repeated.

"Well, what about Dr. Thompkins' water?" Alfred questioned pointedly. "Not to mention you might miss the magician…."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Thompkins," said Bruce politely. "I must have forgotten your water." Then he said to Alfred, "Again, Alfred, I'd like to leave now."

Lee asked with concern, "Are you feeling all right?"

"Oh, he's feeling fine," Alfred said, patting Bruce on the back. "I say, Master Bruce, why don't you just pop by the bar…"

And while those two spoke in undertones, a man dressed in a bright tuxedo stepped towards Lee and whispered something just as quietly. Lee interrupted Bruce and Alfred's undertone disagreement saying, "If you would excuse me; I roped myself into emcee duties, so…" She made off to the stage to introduce the magician. Sylvia watched after her with her arms crossed, smirking when Bruce and Alfred continued to disagree under their breaths.

"Don't like magicians, do you, Mister Wayne?" Sylvia questioned knowingly.

"Of course, he does," Alfred reaffirmed.

Bruce glared at him, but Sylvia smiled regardless. What a pair….

The music died naturally, and the ladies and gentlemen took their seats. Sylvia remained beside herself but smiled inwardly when Bruce chose to stand beside her; Alfred glanced at him curiously, but said nothing, taking Sylvia's other side.

"Good Evening," said Lee into the microphone, her voice heard throughout the large room. "I am Dr. Lee Thompkins. I've had the honor of being part of Children's Hospital. Thank you for your support, and thank you so much for coming out tonight. Over the years, we've had magicians come and entertain your children. Tonight, we have one of the magicians here to entertain you. Please join me in welcoming him tonight: The Great Rodolpho."

The applause that followed was one of anticipation and (perhaps) skepticism.

A woman dressed all in glittering pink and fluffy white trim strode daintily on stage; on her face, she wore a white mask. A box stood on stage; when she opened it, there was no one inside. Feigning shock, she closed the box (the audience chuckled in amusement) and when she opened it a second time, the Great Rudolpho stood.

Sylvia recalled their earlier interaction, wondering if he would be just as charming on stage as he was behind it. It was all an illusion, she knew it as well as the adults, and she was happy to go along with it; she, personally, _loved_ magicians.

"Good Evening, ladies and germs—I am, indeed, the Great Rudolpho! And please…ogle my lovely assistant," Rudolpho mused, gesturing to the woman. He chuckled theatrically.

His first trick was holding a red cloth in both hands, and when he dropped the cloth, he held a rose. He gave it to his lovely assistant, who smiled at him; she tossed it to the audience, provided she had a good arm because the rose fell to Sylvia, who caught it.

Rudolpho chuckled, "Looks like my lovely assistant found _her_ own lovely assistant."

The seated guests turned in their own chairs and noticed Sylvia holding the rose; the spotlight suddenly shifted, putting her (literally) on the spot. The woman waved at her; Sylvia waved back, and the crowd tittered in response.

Rudolpho continued his next trick: doing the same thing with the rose, but instead, appearing in his hand, was a dove; it flew off and out of the building.

"For my next trick," Rudolpho announced. "I will need two volunteers! Let's see…duck, duck, duck, duck… _Goose._ "

Rudolpho pointed squarely at Bruce Wayne. Sylvia glanced at him, as did everyone else expectantly. As the woman strolled off stage to collect the volunteer, Rudolpho continued: "While we're at it, let's just bring up the lovely lady next to him! Let's give them some encouragement!"

Bruce had yet to take the lady's hand, opting not to go on stage and make himself known. He was reluctant to be at the gala to begin with. Sensing his reluctance, Sylvia probed him forward with her own hand as she placed her other in the woman's palm.

"Don't keep the lady waiting," Alfred encouraged.

"Fine…" Bruce muttered. He took the assistant's hand, and both he and Sylvia followed her onto the stage.

"What's your name, my dear," Rudolpho said, smiling widely at her.

"Sylvia Cobblepot."

"Ohhh," Rudolpho said with a larger grin, "We have the Penguin's wife on stage with us. We should all be so honored."

"You can _be_ whatever you want, Great Rudolpho," Sylvia mused, giving him a sarcastic smile.

Half the audience collectively chuckled, while the other half looked uneasily at one another. Bruce was beside himself, not certain whether he was more reluctant to be on stage or to be standing in between Sylvia and the magician.

"Let's have you stand right there," Rudolpho said lightly, gesturing to his assistant, "And you, young man, you can climb onto the table, and we'll get this magic trick a-rolling!"

Bruce did as he was instructed. Sylvia remained standing beside the woman, who peered at her. There was something familiar about her, something Sylvia couldn't pin down but whatever it is, she wasn't too pressured by it. As Bruce climbed into the contraption, Rudolpho held two sharp, metal plates.

"Don't worry, young man, this won't hurt a bit!" Rudolpho said mischievously.

Convinced that he may be in harm's way, Sylvia saw Alfred step forth in protest, but just as he did, Rudolpho had split the boy's body in half; of course, the splitting itself was done all in illusion so when the half of the table containing his legs was pulling aside, Bruce's upper half, still intact, waved on the cue of the magician to do so.

"Does this young man happen to have a name?" Rudolpho asked.

"Bruce!"

"It's Bruce!" Rudolpho called, grinning widely. "And such a brave man, Bruce is! Let's give him a round of applause, while I put him back together again."

Sylvia watched both halves of him become one and Bruce, unharmed and unscathed, climbed off the table and was escorted back to his butler by the young woman. Rudolpho then turned to Sylvia, who looked at him expectantly.

"Tell me, _mon Cherie_ , do _you_ want to split in half?" Rudolpho questioned.

 _Yes, but not by you_ , Sylvia wanted to say. However, she said, "You do the same trick twice, Great Rudolpho, one might think you're a one-trick pony."

Having said this in the microphone, the audience made 'ooohs' of skepticism and was hoping that the magician would show her up.

Rudolpho smirked at her.

"Put your hands together." Rudolpho said.

"Fine then." Sylvia said, curious. She put her palms together as instructed.

"Now repeat after me," Rudolpho said. He put his hands around hers. "Butterfly, butterfly…"

"Butterfly, butterfly."

"Butterfree, butterfree…"

"This is ridiculous," Sylvia noted.

"Well, see, you messed it up so now we have to begin again," Rudolpho said with a chuckle (the audience chortled as well). "So again…Butterfly, butterfly."

Sylvia recited, "Butterfly, butterfly."

"Butterfree, butterfree."

"Butterfree, butterfree," Sylvia repeated.

"Short or tall, wide or small…" Rudolpho said.

"Short or tall, wide or small…"

"Now there's two of me." Rudolpho stated.

"Now there's two of me…" Sylvia said.

She waited. He waited. The whole entire audience waited. Sylvia glanced at the magician, skeptically.

"Now look in your hand." Rudolpho encouraged.

"What am I supposed to…whoa…" Sylvia muttered. When she opened her palms, she saw a picture of herself in the same position as she, with Rudolpho. "Damn…that's some magic."

"Show the audience what you're holding," Rudolpho encouraged. "While you do, I'd like the Deputy Mayor to come up on the stage; my lovely assistant, would you kindly?"

Sylvia showed the audience what she held in her hand. When she did, she saw the back of the picture as well. And it was signed…

 **It IS an awful pleasure,**

 **J. Valeska**

Sylvia looked up as the Deputy Mayor stood on stage, and a table of knives were revealed by the lovely assistant. Sylvia looked at the audience; her nerves were suddenly getting to her; she was jittery, and her belly was suddenly churning.

When she saw that Lee Thompkins was no longer standing beside Bruce and Alfred, Sylvia was certain something bad was going to happen. And just like that…

"By the way," Rudolpho drawled. "No one is getting out of here alive."

A few people in the audience chuckled. And it happened…Rudolpho picked up one of the gleaming knives on the tray and he threw it sharply in the direction of the Deputy Mayor, catching him in the chest, and killing him. Following that, three waiters pulled the towels off their arms, revealing machine guns which peppered the ceiling with bullet holes, sending the audience of 200 ladies and gentlemen scattering. Sylvia glanced quickly at the woman, who now took off her mask.

"Barbara," Sylvia recognized her instantly.

"Hey, girlfriend," Barbara said, winking at her. "Long time, no see."

Sylvia saw the Great Rudolpho surely reveal himself as the young man who'd signed her photograph; Jerome Valeska, standing in the flesh. He smiled at her wickedly.

"Why is it that I get inadvertently wrapped up in all of this," Sylvia said, unusually calm. "I just came out here to dance and then watch magic tricks…"

"I know," Barbara said with an impish grin. "It's like you live in Gotham or something."

"Sarcasm? _Really_?" Sylvia questioned sardonically. "I guess there would be no point in trying to leave?"

"All the doors are barricaded," Barbara said, watching the people scurry under the table when they realized they couldn't leave.

"And hiding is out of the question," Sylvia stated.

"Clearly."

"I suppose shooting you would be counterproductive," Sylvia said calmly.

Barbara smirked saying, "You don't have a gun."

"Don't I…" Sylvia mused.

"It's in your shoe…" Barbara guessed.

Sylvia scoffed, "Not even close."

Jerome Valeska turned to look at the two of them saying, "Should _I_ check?"

"If you want to lose a hand," Sylvia offered darkly.

Jerome smirked saying, "I think it would be worth it, actually."

Sylvia glanced at Barbara pointedly; the woman shrugged and held out her hand. Sylvia reached under her dress and pulled the gun that was strapped to the outside of her thigh; she placed it in Barbara's hand, and the woman grinned at her.

"Leave it to you to be honest with a criminal," Barbara sighed, shaking her head. "You and Jim are a lot more alike than I care to admit."

"Leave it to you to say something so sweet," Sylvia remarked.

Jerome glanced at Sylvia saying, "You're a lot calmer than Jim…you're not scared of me, are you?"

"You're a kid," Sylvia said quietly. "There's a lot more fucked up things to be afraid of in this town than you, kiddo."

" _Put her there_ ," Barbara ordered.

Sylvia and Jerome glanced at Lee Thompkins who was being manhandled by one of the waiters; the waiter strapped her into a wheel, careful not to hurt any vital part of her. Barbara squeaked happily as she spun the contraption lightly, making Lee go around and around, before stopping it to prove a point.

"Why aren't you putting _her_ on this thing?" Lee asked, glancing at Sylvia incredulously.

"She and I are best friends," Barbara said sweetly. "Besides, _she_ isn't a mad-raving harpy trying to get in between Jim and me. You are, bitch."

"Wow, a little harsh there, B." Sylvia muttered.

"Well, it's true." Barbara said coolly, glaring ostentatiously at Lee, who stared at Sylvia.

"You're _in_ on this?" Lee questioned heatedly.

"Of course not," Sylvia replied coldly. "But I know when I am beat."

Proving a point, Sylvia sat on the table that Bruce had only minutes ago occupied. Jerome grinned widely and said to Barbara, "See, I like when things go easily—you're not bad for a cop's sister."

"I'm also married, so don't get any fucking ideas," Sylvia threatened lowly.

"Ooh, _feisty_." Jerome drawled, smirking at her.

"Stop hassling her, Jerome," Barbara chided.

"Jeez…" Jerome said, rolling his eyes. "You, women, are _so_ hard to please. This one wants to go" (He gestured to Lee) "You like her…. or hate her or something" (He gestured to Barbara, referring to Sylvia) "And you…I don't know what to think about you yet, Doll face."

Sylvia scrunched her nose at him in a mocking way, but Jerome only found her childish response to be adorable.

"Get me down!" Lee said.

Sylvia looked down at her (Lee was upside down for the moment) and said logically, "Physically, I'm able to, but you know…if I try to save you, I'll get shot."

She glanced at Barbara and Jerome respectively saying, "Right? If I try anything, I'll get shot?"

"You got it, cupcake," Jerome said, winking at her.

"See?" Sylvia said, glancing at Lee. "And you're fine right now. No one's harmed you yet."

"'Yet' is the operative word here," Barbara noted.

"Please don't hurt her," Sylvia said callously. "If you do, as Jim's sister, I'll be obliged to do something about it and I'm in no fucking mood to get shot."

"But you'll willingly light yourself on fire," Barbara pointed out.

"'Willingly' is the operative word, Sweetheart," Sylvia responded. "I _willingly_ lit myself on fire. I'm not willing to get shot. There's a difference there."

Barbara smiled sincerely saying, "I really _have_ missed you. We used to be so close. What happened?"

"You went to Arkham Asylum, escaped, became part of the Maniax, and, now, you're placing me in an odd position by placing my brother's girlfriend on a spinning wheel of death." Sylvia replied pointedly.

Jerome said amusedly, "She's got a point."

"Stay out of this," Barbara said, "This is _girl_ talk. And you're not a girl."

"Not that you know of," Jerome replied seriously.

"That's TMI," Sylvia said.

"Well, if you think _that_ was TMI," Jerome drawled, "You do _not_ want to know what I'm thinking about—I'll give you a hint. It involves the two of us." He winked at her.

Sylvia rolled her eyes, saying, "You're eighteen years old, Jerome. I'm twice your age."

"Well, if you're willing, I am too," Jerome said, smirking at her.

Lee glared at the three of them saying, "I'm the one strapped to a spinning board, and I'm not even sure that I'm the uncomfortable one."

"No," Sylvia sighed, "I'm pretty sure you're the uncomfortable one."

"Shut up, shut up," Jerome said quickly, "I'm making a phone call."

Sylvia, Lee, and Barbara glanced at each other and they muttered simultaneously, "How rude…"

By this time, the cameras were rolling; the live feed from the cameras in the room were pulled to the video networks, and all the channels of the new station were rolling. With Barbara standing in front of Lee, who was (now) sitting upright on the spinning wheel; Jerome stood on one side of the table while Sylvia sat on said table, looking more or less stiff, but otherwise safe.

It was clear who Jerome was talking to when he said excitedly, "Sorry, Jimbo, it's just little old me…"

And unfortunately, it was a one-way conversation. Sylvia could only imagine what Jim was responding like…but she could guess by the way Jerome responded.

"Are you outside?" Jerome questioned, gasping mockingly. "Oh, you are! You are, aren't you…Goody! Breathe James, I haven't hurt a single hair on your girlfriend's head…or your sister—by the way, I can certainly tell who got the better genes in the family…"

Sylvia closed her eyes, inwardly groaning. Not only was Jim worried about Lee, but now he would be worried for his sister as well. Hopefully, he would keep his head, and think clearly—for all of their sakes.

"See for yourself—this is live television, after all…" Jerome mused darkly. A moment passed, and Jerome continued: "True, but not the point. Let's talk about what I want: 47 million dollars, a helicopter—obviously…the dry cleaning I left at Mr. Chang's (be careful, the man is a crook) and, oh I don't know…a pony! You've got ten minutes, and remember, this is being broadcast to every television in Gotham so you know—don't let people die!" He started laughing maniacally in the phone and then suddenly stopped, saying pointedly, "I think that went well."

Sylvia smiled in spite of herself; despite the horrors of the situation, she _did_ find Jerome's dark sense of humor to mirror her own.

"Enough!"

Sylvia, Barbara, Lee, and Jerome's attention centered on the man's voice. A man rose from the audience, like a shepherd among the sheep, and strode forward slowly. His hair was smoothed back, dark as his eyes, and there was a certain confidence in his drawl. Sylvia glanced at Barbara and Jerome; they recognized him—whomever this character was—but Sylvia did not recognize this man at all. He was probably new to Gotham.

"Enough," He repeated, stepping forward. "You need to pack up your little side-show and leave…"

Jerome put his hands in his pockets, none too affronted, and said, "Is that right?"

"It may be presumptuous to speak for all the citizens of Gotham—"

 _Presumptuous is not the word I would use_ , Sylvia thought.

"—But we are sick of you!" The man insisted dramatically. "You are a small, vicious man with a pathetic need for attention."

Jerome happily gestured to himself like 'You're right, that's me!'

"Enough, man." The man said strongly, standing on stage. "For god's sakes, enough."

"I'm sorry," Jerome said (not sorry at all), "But I'm curious what your leverage is here, Mister…"

"Theo Galavan," the man said low but sternly into the camera.

"Well, Mister _Theo Galavan_ " Jerome mocked, imitating the low voice as well, "If you don't sit down, I'm gonna shoot you in the face."

"I know there is still some human decency left in you," said Galavan (Jerome gestured to himself quizzically) "If you need a hostage, take me. But let these people go, to their homes. To their families!"

Ah, family…Sylvia had forgotten this was being streamed live. So not only was Jim able to watch this, so would Oswald. And to think that she let Gabe go home, thinking nothing would happen. She'd have to bend over backwards (maybe even on a sexual note) to keep Oswald from killing Gabe; Oswald would blame him if anything happened to her.

Put that on a note of things to do when Sylvia finally got out of this wreck.

Just as Galavan had finished his heroic speech to save people, Barbara hit him over the head with what appeared to be some type of sledge hammer; and the man went down with a thud.

"Boring," Barbara sighed.

"Right?" Jerome agreed.

Lee looked helplessly at Sylvia, who returned the same look with just cause. She was more than happy to sit and wait this out; that's what most people failed to do during trivial times such as these; everyone wanted to act out, play the hero—when all was needed was really to sit it out. Let the villains get bored. Then again, Jerome seemed to be the type to find his own amusement in any way possible. So maybe sitting and 'waiting it out' was more of a death sentence than a logical tactic.

"So," Barbara sighed, looking at Sylvia (and ignoring Lee). "How have you been?"

"I've been," Sylvia responded.

"Not very specific, are you?"

"Well, be more specific, please." Sylvia replied pointedly. "You pretty much have Lee and me hostage, and you want me to enlighten on you on my life? You see how stupid that sounds?"

"I can see that being held hostage hasn't stopped you from resorting to sarcastic humor," Barbara noted.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I've been a lot more sarcastic the last time we met."

"That _does_ kind of make me feel better," Barbara said sweetly. "You look good…"

"So do you," Sylvia said honestly.

"Are we really doing this?" Lee questioned irritably. "Are you _really_ going to make small talk with this insane psycho while I—"

"No one's talking to you, _Lee_ ," Barbara snarled. She growled inwardly before turning to look at Sylvia, saying, "I've missed you, you know. Your humor, your pretty looks—you know, I've always had a thing for you, but being with Jim, I guess, made me forget that."

"This is _not_ the time to hit on me, Babs," Sylvia said logically.

"Yeah, well, I waited too long," Barbara said, shrugging. "Good-looking girl like you, I knew you'd be taken off the market before I was single again."

"Technically, you were single when I was still somewhat on the market," Sylvia reminded. "But you were in Arkham."

"And you were dating that Penguin fella," said Barbara. "So, you weren't really on the market."

"Point taken." Sylvia said smoothly.

"You never did send me a wedding photo," Barbara reminded.

"Well, you were out of Arkham by then, and I didn't exactly have an address to send the picture to, even if I remembered," Sylvia said softly.

"Hm. Point taken," said Barbara.

"Unbelievable," Lee muttered irritably.

"We used to be really close friends, just so you know," Barbara said to Lee pointedly. "We're just catching up after all this time."

"What a time to catch up," Lee snarled.

"Well, if you had any close girlfriends, _you_ would know, wouldn't you?" Barbara said harshly.

Jerome was doing his own thing, taking and picking volunteers and making them stand in front of him. One of them, he'd chosen, and he'd placed an apple on the man's head. He took a shot, and pulled the trigger; instead, water spewed from it—revealing it to be a water gun.

Sylvia smirked, finding it funnier than she ought to have. Barbara also giggled.

"Damn." Jerome said, in mock disappointment. "Turn around. Go on…" He twirled the real gun in a single motion and the man reluctantly and fearfully did as he was told. Jerome then pulled the trigger, and the apple exploded.

A few gasped, but everyone was sitting in their chairs, too stunned to say anything.

"Well, _clap!_ " Jerome snapped.

Everyone clapped on cue. Jerome moved towards Sylvia, grinning at her broadly.

"What do you need from me now?" Sylvia questioned.

"Well, my dear, it's not so much what I need as it is 'what do I want'?"

Sylvia stared at him.

"Ask me," Jerome said with a childish giggle.

"Ask you what?"

"Ask me 'what do you want'?" Jerome insisted.

"This is ridiculous."

"Humor me," Jerome encouraged.

"Fine. 'What do you want'?"

"You."

"That's not happening."

"You don't even know what I want you for," Jerome responded logically.

"It can't be for anything good," Sylvia replied knowingly.

"You're a smart woman—I'll give you that," said Jerome slyly. "But come with me anyway."

He took her wrist, and pulled her off the table. Sylvia followed, albeit cautiously. He held out to her one of the guns—the water gun. She took it despondently.

"Do you know the game 'Russian Roulette'?" Jerome asked.

"I do."

"Do you want to play?"

"Not really."

"Do you want to play?"

"You just asked me that question," Sylvia said.

"That's because I want a different answer." Jerome said coolly, although she sensed the irritation in his voice steadily drawing to the surface.

"Fine. Ask me again."

"Do you want to play?"

"No." Sylvia said coolly.

"That's…okay, fine," Jerome muttered. "We'll pretend you said 'yes'."

"You can pretend all you want, kid, but that's not what happened," Sylvia said smoothly.

"You're infuriating," Jerome noted.

"Glad to be of help," Sylvia said sarcastically.

"Hold this," Jerome insisted, placing the _real_ gun in her hand and taking the water gun, throwing it to the crowd.

"Now…" Jerome said slowly. "Point it at me."

"No problem," Sylvia mused, doing as she was told. "Should I pull the trigger as well?"

"Whenever you—"

She didn't wait for him to answer; instead, Sylvia pulled the trigger and nothing came out. Jerome gave her a look as to why she hadn't waited for him to build the suspense; this guy was all about the fun and anticipation, and less about the result. He liked to play games, to toy with people; Sylvia figured this one out long before she became a player.

"No dice," Sylvia said. "Is it my turn?"

"You've played before," Jerome said sneakily. "You know it is."

"Forehead or mouth," Sylvia asked, implying the location of the gun.

"A woman after my own heart!" Jerome giggled. "Player's choice."

Sylvia placed the gun directly underneath her jaw.

"Pull the trigger, baby." Jerome whispered. "Actually…before you do…face the audience. I want the cameras to get a good shot of this—get it— 'shot'…"

No one laughed. Sylvia glanced at Lee, who was staring fearfully at her while Barbara looked amused.

"What if there's no bullet," said Sylvia. "Do I have to go again?"

"Nah." Jerome said, shaking his head and crossing his arms.

"Is there any reason in particular why we're doing this?" Sylvia questioned.

"Well, aside from waiting for Jimbo to get the stuff I have requested, nope. Plus, you just happened to be part of the audience, and you just _happened_ to be the most interesting person in this place," said Jerome, "but to answer your question: No."

"So, you're going to kill the most interesting person and then what?" Sylvia asked.

"I don't know—I'm just kind of winging it, at this point," Jerome giggled.

"You need an audience," Sylvia uttered. "Personally, I think everything you're doing is hilarious."

"Do you, really?" Jerome asked eagerly.

"Of course. The magic tricks, the water gun… _especially_ the water gun," Sylvia said, smiling at him.

Jerome stepped towards her and took the gun from her hand. Sylvia raised her eyebrows, surprised by the sudden response.

"You really _are_ a woman after my own heart," Jerome said, smirking at her. "You're flattering me, though, buttering me up—you're doing that so I won't want you to kill yourself."

"Is it working?" Sylvia questioned softly.

Jerome leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "You have _no_ idea."

Uncertain as to what to do now, Sylvia looked at him for a cue. What now?

"I wonder what kind of chaos I could cause in your little home," Jerome whispered, "if your husband and your big brother saw us kissing on live television. That would work for some extra drama, wouldn't it?"

"It would _definitely_ cause some anarchy," Sylvia said, nodding.

"How about this…I'll let you live, Doll face," Jerome said darkly. "But you're going to create your own chaos—just…for…me."

He put enough distance between them so that Sylvia would have to actually _walk_ over to him and kiss him, to prove her willingness. Sylvia could only imagine what kind of drama would ensue when Jim and Oswald saw her on national television, actually walk up to and kiss this maniac.

"You'll leave Lee alone," Sylvia demanded. "You won't kill her either."

"Maybe," Jerome said, smirking. "But uh…you'll have to keep your end of the bargain."

Sylvia glanced at Lee, who watched her helplessly from the spinning wheel. To save Lee's life and her own, Sylvia would have to kiss this guy, and explain this somehow to Oswald and Jim. Jim would understand—he was used to these dire situations, but would Oswald?

"Fuck…" Sylvia mumbled.

Jerome grinned widely. He stood in front of the table on which Sylvia had only previously sat. A few feet from Lee and Barbara. Sylvia bit her bottom lip nervously before she sauntered forward and, before she could second-doubt her thoughts, Sylvia leaned forward and kissed him.

Not a simple, peck-on-the-cheek kiss. She grabbed his face, kissed him hard on the lips, and rolled her tongue inside his mouth. Jerome responded happily and when it naturally broke, he whispered, "You are one unpredictable babe, Fire Dancer."

Sylvia looked at him darkly. Just as the kiss ended, Barbara was threateningly taking the knife from the Deputy Mayor's chest and ready to stab Lee with it; Jerome bypassed Sylvia, steady on his word, and grabbed Barbara's wrist.

"It hasn't been ten minutes," Jerome stated pointedly. "We gotta buy you a watch…"

Instead, Barbara punched Lee in the face. Jerome rolled his eyes, and then took the microphone, saying, "Well, I think it's time for our first official victim of the night…You all know his name: orphan boy, parents _murdered_ in an alley, and my favorite volunteer: Bruuuuce!"

Sylvia rubbed her lips, licking her hand to get the taste of Jerome Valeska out of her mouth. Lee looked at her incredulously.

"Will you help me now?" Lee squeaked.

"I've helped enough," Sylvia snapped, gagging.

"I'm feeling a little ill," Lee mumbled.

"You have _no_ idea," Sylvia agreed.

"Nice little kiss," Barbara teased, smirking at her. "Maybe you can give _me_ one."

"Fuck you, princess," Sylvia snapped.

"So rude," Barbara sighed, crossing her arms with mock hurt.

When Bruce Wayne didn't come out of hiding, Jerome started talking (no surprise, there): "Come on, Bruce-y. You know I'm an orphan too? But I killed _my_ parents."

As it turns out, Jerome had a nasty temper himself.

" _Where are you hiding_!" Jerome shouted. "BRUCE!"

"Kill his butler," Barbara suggested.

Jerome gestured for the henchmen to bring Alfred forward; and, so they did. Sylvia wondered if she should have lengthened the names to include everyone in the vicinity rather than just excluding her and Lee from the list of potential victims…but Sylvia wasn't even sure what the price of that would have included. She would kiss Jerome to keep the two of them safe, but sleeping with him was a step too far.

"Alright," Jerome lamented, "But it's going to get really Butler-brainy in here. BRUCE!"

"STOP!" Bruce said quickly, stepping forward.

"Fucking kids," Sylvia mumbled, rubbing her forehead. If only he'd just stayed behind the curtain, goddamn it. The kid was a natural born hero… _shit._

Bruce stepped forward, and Alfred protested. They exchanged some quick words, and just like that, Bruce was taken up the stage, taken hostage by Jerome; a knife to little Bruce's neck. Jerome ordered the henchmen to look behind the curtain, to be sure that no one was playing spy.

Just as they stepped behind it, gunshots fired. Sylvia saw Jim Gordon coming out from behind the heavy curtain, gun aimed; And it just so happened that Alfred was carrying as well. Both of them aimed their weapons at Bruce, but a clear shot was going to be hard to find. Jerome was using him as a human shield.

"Looks like we got ourselves in a pickle, Bruce-y boy," Jerome giggled. "What do you say, Bruce, you wanna boost our ratings?"

"I said _Enough_!"

Theo Galavan stood, once more, in the spotlight, recovering from his knock-over-the-head. Having heard enough from the guy, Jerome completely dropped his guard and turned to tell him to fuck off, but just like that, Galavan took his own shot and stabbed Jerome in the neck with a knife. Shocked, Jerome muttered something and was smiling, even as the knife dug deeper into his carotid artery; Galavan brought him down onto the stage, otherwise saving everyone in the gala.

Distracted by the death of Jerome Valeska, everyone seemed to forget about Barbara, that was until Lee called, "Jim! Barbara!"

Barbara quickly dashed to a clear cylinder and when the blanket came down over it, she'd vanished. Sylvia hurried to Lee's side and undid her straps, holding her arms until Lee gained balance. Lee pushed Sylvia away from her.

"We could have been killed!" Lee snapped. "And all you could do was sit there!"

"What the fuck did you want me to do, Lee?" Sylvia questioned harshly. "If I tried to save you, I'd be like the Deputy Mayor—dead. And I didn't just _sit_ there!"

"You were playing along with him," Lee snarled, gesturing sharply to Jerome. "You were playing his games!"

"I was playing along with him because it was better than playing against him," Sylvia reminded. "And, for your information, _you're alive,_ aren't you?"

"You were going to kill yourself," Lee said incredulously.

"No, I wasn't. But it was convincing, wasn't it?" Sylvia returned, glancing at Jim, who came to stand beside Lee. "I was trying to win Jerome over—and I did."

"Very convincing," Jim reassured. He turned to Lee. "Are you okay?"

"Am I _okay_?" Lee exclaimed. "Your sister is—"

"Don't finish that," Jim and Sylvia said simultaneously.

Jim looked at Sylvia, "You're unremarkable."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Sylvia responded. "Personally, if it wasn't for Jerome having a thing for me, you" (She looked at Lee) "would be dead and Barbara would have stabbed you in the face. The only reason Jerome stopped her was because I made a deal with him."

"That was the kiss…" Jim muttered incredulously.

"What—you think I'd kiss the creep for the fun of it?" Sylvia questioned disgustedly. "I think not! Now…if you don't mind, I'm going to go home, rinse my mouth out with Scope, and try to explain to my wonderful husband what happened."

Jim said, "You'll have to give a statement."

"You know where I live," Sylvia stated coolly. "Come get the statement when you want."

"Do you want to sit down—can I get you a drink?" Jim said quickly, taking Sylvia's arm.

"I've dealt with worse," she reminded. "Comfort your girlfriend." She gestured to Lee, who looked at Sylvia with what could only be described as relief, anger, and a little disbelief.

Sylvia started forward, leaving the building, but was stopped by Alfred and Bruce. Bruce looked relieved to see Sylvia alive; Alfred looked as though he had worked five days in a row, within one day.

"Glad to see you came out unscathed," Sylvia said, smiling at the two.

"You too…" Bruce said, not sure what else to say, really.

"That was quite the show," Alfred said, just as uneasily.

Sylvia nodded, and said good night to them. Just as she was about to leave, a hand took her own.

"For Christ's sake, Jim, I just want to go home!" Sylvia muttered tiredly. She turned to see that it was not Jim who had taken her wrist, but Theo Galavan. "Oh…I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else."

"Sorry to disappoint," Galavan said charmingly.

Sylvia looked at him pointedly, saying, "Thank you for saving all of us. I guess that's in order, isn't it?"

"Well, you did a fair job of distracting Jerome when I couldn't," said Galavan, smiling in spite of himself. "Diversion is an excellent tactic. Seduction is a marvelous one—and you used it fairly well, Mrs. Cobblepot."

"Well, this has been a long night, so…if you'd excuse me…" Sylvia said politely. "I have what I can only imagine is a very upset husband I have to tend to back home."

"Of course," Galavan said, side-stepping her.

Sylvia quickly left the building, called Gabe, who quickly came and collected her. The ride home was one of silence, which Sylvia was most grateful. Gabe had a way of not having to say 'I told you so', even though he had every right to say so.


	16. Who Do You Belong To

Chapter Sixteen: Who Do You Belong To

Sylvia moved casually throughout the mansion; her heels clicked the hardwood floors, inadvertently announcing her presence. She stopped in front of the door leading to the meeting room where Oswald normally met with the other Five Families' leaders and it was until after a few minutes had passed did she recognize the voice belonging to Harvey Bullock; apparently, he'd made an impromptu visit.

She opened the door slowly, and saw Harvey sitting on the edge of the table, talking to Oswald. Seeing Oswald's hard expression, Sylvia doubted there was a friendly discussion taking place.

"See," said Harvey, "There's talk on the street that Jim Gordon did a favor for you. Collected a debt…and the guy ended up dead."

Oswald said smoothly, "They're rumors."

"Rumors," said Harvey, unconvinced.

"People talk," said Oswald, shrugging. "But then again, you know…where there's smoke…"

From where she stood, Sylvia could not see Harvey's expression, but she doubted he was amused.

"Jim shouldn't worry," said Oswald reassuringly. "He and I are good friends."

"Well, see, I think he _is_ worried. There was an incident that happened today and you were the most obvious person to go to for the answers, and I sensed that he was a little reluctant to come down here." Harvey said pointedly. "Then again, if my little sister was married to someone like you, I imagine I would be feeling a little reluctant too."

"Sylvia is a separate matter," Oswald said coolly.

"Well, that's just it, isn't it?" Harvey said (Sylvia could **hear** the smirk in his voice). "You know, I never came to the wedding, but I imagine it was _beautiful_. Belated congrats, by the way." Harvey shifted in his position, while Oswald narrowed his eyes at him just slightly, slowly becoming irritated by his presence. "Jim shouldn't worry about what happened, right? Just as long as you two _stay_ friends?"

"Exactly," said Oswald, smiling widely.

"Yeah…" Harvey said stiffly. He leaned forward: "You know, I have half a mind to take you outside and beat you with a trash can—"

"Harvey!"

Just as the men were taking out their guns to protect their Alpha, both Harvey and Oswald turned their heads in her direction, startled by her presence.

"Well, look who it is." Harvey said, grinning widely at her. "'Fire Dancer'."

So, the kiss had been broadcasted on national television. And the reference didn't go unnoticed by anyone in the room. The hired personnel glanced at one another awkwardly; Harvey was grinning so widely that his teeth were showing; and Oswald stiffened just a little more.

Harvey glanced at the guns pointing at him, turning to Oswald and said, "Maybe another time."

He got off the table and was just about to leave before he spun around, saying, "You can call yourself whatever you want, man: 'The King of Gotham'. But to me, you're still that little umbrella boy—and if you go after Jim Gordon, you'll have to come after me first." Darkly, he added, "And I still owe you for Fish…"

He glanced at the men then at Sylvia before smiling again at Oswald, saying, "Love the place, by the way." As he passed Sylvia, he said softly, "Always a pleasure seeing you, Liv."

Sylvia looked after him. The sound of a wine glass shattering against the wall drew her attention back to Oswald who ordered Gabe to get him another drink. Sylvia moved fully into the room, and glanced at the television that was now reporting everything that had happened at the gala, including the kiss.

Sylvia felt her insides curdle sickeningly as it replayed on the Tube. Oswald glared at Sylvia.

"You mind explaining to me what _that_ was about?" Oswald questioned before turning off the television with finality.

Sylvia took a seat in the chair closest to him.

"I only kissed him to save Lee and myself from being killed," Sylvia said honestly.

"You've been trained by a former agent of the CIA and you _know_ how to physically disarm and apprehend an eight-foot gorilla," said Oswald coldly, "and you're telling me that the **only** way you could protect yourself was by kissing Jerome Valeska."

Sylvia frowned saying, "Well, when you put it like _that_ it sounds like you think I might have wanted an affair with the kid."

" _Don't you tell me what to think_!" Oswald shouted, slapping his hand on the table.

"That's what you're thinking, isn't it?" Sylvia questioned.

"What else would you have been willing to do in order to save your life?" Oswald questioned coldly.

"What—you're asking if I would have slept with him?"

"You _know_ what I am implying," Oswald retorted.

"I know—I'm just insulted that you'd even **think** about implying it," Sylvia quipped, crossing her arms. "I didn't _enjoy_ the kiss—it was a distraction, a way to keep the attention off Lee and everyone else."

"I don't _care_ about everyone else," Oswald seethed; his fingers gripped the arms of the chair.

Gabe had come back with a fresh glass and placed it on the table. Oswald glared at Gabe, his teeth baring.

"And you!" Oswald said, turning on him. "I _told_ you: **Stay**. **With**. **Her**!"

"She told me to go—" Gabe began, pointing to Sylvia.

Oswald suddenly stood to his feet, the chair scooting harshly across the wooden floor as he gesticulated violently, "AND I TOLD YOU TO STAY!"

"What did you want me to do, Boss?" Gabe asked helplessly. "The lady wanted me to go—she said she'd be fine…"

"I DON'T CARE WHAT SHE SAID!" Oswald shouted. " _Your orders were to_ **STAY WITH HER**!"

Oswald was shaking with rage, eyes bright. It was unclear as to with whom he was angrier: it was a close second between Gabe and Sylvia…and Harvey's insinuation had not helped it any either.

"Oswald…" Sylvia began.

Seeing him so riled up made Sylvia feel things that she shouldn't.

"This wouldn't have happened if you'd have done what I'd ordered you to do," Oswald snarled at Gabe, who inched back from within the boss' reach. "I don't think I could have been any clearer!"

"Oswald…"

Seeing him angry made her insides burn with passion. His anger, his fury at the idea of her life being in danger…

"And to think I—"

" _Oswald_!"

He turned to Sylvia, ready to lash out at her but Sylvia grabbed the collar of his suit and pulled him to her. He was quick to try and pull away, wanting more to bask in his agitation than allow her to distract him, but the moment her lips crashed against his, he seemed to melt like butter. Oswald responded to her; his fingers tangled behind her head among her red locks. What anger he still felt was now being tunneled into one emotion: Lust.

His intense gaze remained locked on her even as he ordered his men to get out of the room. They were quick to obey. It was not unlike having a group of children in the room ready to flee the wrath of a strict father. They closed the doors on their way to the exit, leaving Oswald and Sylvia alone.

"I know what I did upset you, but I want you to know you're the only man for me," Sylvia uttered against his lips. "Let me show you…"

Oswald responded dryly, "Why don't you."

Sylvia lowered herself to her knees and wasted little time as she unzipped his pants and pulled his semi-erect cock out. He sharply inhaled when she took him into her mouth. Seeing her on her knees, ready to please and be forgiven for her trepidation made Oswald hard in a matter of seconds.

"Look at me," Oswald ordered.

She lifted her gaze to him. Oswald grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled; she let out a moan, and the vibration of it left him wanting more. He shoved her head down, forcing her to take more of him, and he groaned when he heard her gag.

"I know you can take more than that, Sylvia." Oswald condescended. And how he loved seeing her narrow her eyes, challenging him silently. Her hands moved behind him, nails digging into his buttocks as though she was trying to respond to his remark.

But she took more of him without resistance, perhaps to prove a point, but he was satisfied either way. He was getting close—oh, so fucking close—and so quick already.

Fuck…the things this woman could do to him in so little time.

"Who do you belong to?" Oswald groaned.

He was teetering between a powerful orgasm and the desire to continue hearing Sylvia's desperate moans; she was so eager to satisfy, so desperate to make him come. Her muffled response made him smile.

He yanked her head back by the handful of her hair, and she let him go with a _pop_. Her lips were swollen, and a fair amount of drool ran down her chin. He grinned widely, seeing Sylvia's eyes fully blown with desire.

He sat on his throne, and she looked at him reproachfully. He made a gesture of 'come hither' and she moved towards him, on her knees. Sylvia licked her lips in anticipation.

"Continue."

Sylvia nodded obediently, and with her hands placed on his knees, she lowered her mouth to his cock and did as she was told. Oswald relaxed his head against the back of the chair, entangling his hands in her hair. He set the pace, the rhythm. He fully intended to take advantage of her repentance; at this moment, her head slowly bobbed up and down, taking him deep within her throat. Her tongue massaged his shaft, and the very feel of it made Oswald moan quietly.

"Who do you belong to?" Oswald whispered.

Sylvia responded by squeezing his thighs.

"Good answer," he praised.

He looked down at her, watching more than just her. Pulling her hair from her face, Oswald could see the vision before him; her eyes were closed, basking in the moment. Her only focus was him.

How she worshipped the ground on which he stood…how, currently, her entire world was focused on _him_ , nothing and no one else. If Satan had ever sent up a demon to deliver his soul to him, this vixen would be the one to carry it to Hell, indeed.

Her lips grew taut around him, and she sucked. Her soft, desperate moans created vibrations through his cock, and pleasurable chills ran down his back. Suddenly, he felt too constricted by his clothes, too hot and bothered.

God, he was so close.

So fucking close…

His hips lifted, thrusting his cock inside her mouth. And she was all too keen on how close he was to the edge. Like the smart little girl she was, Sylvia took him all the way to the base, balls deep; he grabbed both sides of her face and began to fuck her mouth.

She braced herself, gripping the sides of his seat and let him do what he wanted. Her moans and his grunts became one sound, filling the room. When he came, she swallowed every ounce that he gave her; and after, she licked the tip of his cock like it was a lollipop. Oswald panted, looking down at her, smiling contentedly when she grinned back.

Sylvia wiped her saliva off with the back of her hand. As she stood, she pulled down her panties; as she straddled him, she lifted the hem of her dress, so he could see her.

"Are you still my girl?" Oswald uttered.

She answered hoarsely, "Always."

She stood to her feet. Oswald's eyes looked down at her red knees from where she'd remained planted. His expression of content flickered to one of concern; but Sylvia seemed unaffected. She bowed at the waist and kissed his cheek; he turned his head, capturing her lips with his. The kiss had been brief, but it was soft, tender, and meaningful. When it naturally broke, Oswald caught her wrist and pulled her back for another one.


	17. A Not-So-Nice Meeting

Chapter Seventeen: A Not-So-Nice Meeting

* * *

In the weeks that followed, it was clear that Jerome Valeska's reign on television had left Gotham in fear. Crime was out of sorts, so to speak, and it was causing friction within the Five Families, and, as it was, within Oswald's empire. There was something charismatic in the way Jerome Valeska had caused Gotham to ripple in fear, but ultimately, it had become a pain in the ass.

Oswald held a meeting, and anyone who was someone, was mandated to attend.

Sylvia sat in her Queenie throne; she'd dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeve see-through black shirt over a navy-blue tank-top; the heel of her boot tapped the hardwood floors impatiently before she interlaced her fingers, and one leg crossed over the other. While the King stood in front of the fireplace, looking into the depths of its flames, those who were in attendance were shouting at one another in an effort to be heard. Sylvia sat in silence, her eyes glancing from one unrecognizable face to another, her expression lacking in amusement.

Her second-in-command, Tiffany Rubberdale, sat on her left, looking more or less confused and uneasy; large crowds, such as this one, made her nervous, and she was constantly unraveling what had originally been a whole napkin and now were pieces of what used to be scattered in front of her on the mahogany table. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and her face was lavished with heavy navy-blue eyeliner and rouge; but no amount of makeup could cover her anxious expression.

Standing behind Sylvia was Mr. Bell, the cook as well as Sylvia's physical trainer. He stood beside Butch, and the two stocky bodyguards glanced at one another with stoic expressions before returning their bored gazes to the full house.

Some of the arguments ranged from disputes regarding turf and territory invasions, while others were petty, talking about little robberies that equated to no more than 10 dollars in profit. People were robbing from one another, and at this point, everyone seemed to be at everyone else's throats.

Tiffany glanced uncertainly at Sylvia, who remained stoic for the most part.

The Queen had little to say at these events. Instead, she preferred to listen to all the complaints and whining from the peanut gallery. Her amusement normally stemmed from the quarrelling, and seeing people riled up for no fucking reason. However, as this had continued to go on for longer than what she could tolerate, Sylvia lost interest an hour ago.

And apparently, so had Oswald, for he suddenly turned, grabbed the nearest shotgun, and pulled the trigger, towards the ceiling.

Everyone silenced as rubble of ceiling fell and littered the table with the debris.

"Gentlemen, ladies, others!" Oswald said. "Let us discuss the future with a little civility, shall we?"

He strolled past the seated individuals who glanced at each other precariously, and pointedly took a seat beside Sylvia, who smiled at him. He returned the simple gaze, addressing the group with his usual business-like tone. Sylvia grinned; she always loved it when he took command of the room.

"So," He began, "not one of you knows who orchestrated and/or executed the Arkham break-out?" He glanced at random individuals, saying, "I find that hard to believe. I mean, the cops' only lead is a blind man, for god's sake. A BLIND MAN!" (Everyone besides Sylvia, Butch, and Mr. Bell flinched.) "Then, who here is to be trusted? Because _someone_ knows."

A young man spoke from Tiffany's left, saying, "Uh…well, we thought it was _you_."

Oswald glanced past Sylvia and Tiffany, saying, "And why on Earth would I do that? We've never had it better. I gave you all the freedom in the world, and business boomed for all of us. A new generation. Then that ginger maniac had to spoil everything. Even now he is dead, the public is still terrified, business is in the can, and what are we doing? Fighting amongst ourselves."

Oswald sighed, getting to his feet and strolled to the front of the table, standing before the fireplace stating, "Is this how any of us wants to live? Squabbling, brawling, running, hiding? This city belongs to _us_ now. But kids, that brings responsibilities. We need to restore confidence in our brand, if you will. We need discipline and unity, yes?

"There will be no more chaos, no more gang wars, and no more blood in the streets, scaring decent folk. From now on," said Oswald coolly, "if you want to kill someone, blackmail, steal, or kidnap _anyone_ , **I** need to hear about it first. Understand?"

The same young man who'd spoken earlier raised his hand.

Oswald looked at him expectantly, if not irritably.

"What?" Oswald questioned.

"What if you're not available?" He asked.

Following the question was a muttering of agreement.

"Then Sylvia," Oswald said, gesturing to her, "will be the second to notify. She is, after all, an extension of me."

The audience in the room glanced at her and she waved, smirking at Oswald.

"What if _neither_ of you are available?" The young man asked.

Oswald looked impatient, but Sylvia answered calmly, "Then it might be best to hold off on your plans for blackmailing, kidnapping, or any other devious items you have on your agenda, yeah?"

The man gulped when her eyes flashed dangerously, and he nodded quickly. Oswald rolled his eyes and dismissed the meeting. People were murmuring as they stood to leave; Sylvia looked at Tiffany, who glanced at her uncertainly.

"Go back to the club, Tiff," Sylvia said lightly.

"You don't want me to stay?" Tiffany asked.

"We're pretty much done here," Sylvia responded gently. "Plus, I'd like you to visit my mother-in-law. She's been expecting this recipe" (Sylvia withdrew an envelope from her pant pocket and handed it to Tiffany) "and I've been meaning to get it to her, but these meetings keep getting longer and longer."

"You don't want to take this yourself?" Tiffany asked.

Sylvia gave her a look, and Tiffany said quickly, "I don't mean any disrespect; but if you want to see her, then I say, maybe you could take it yourself. Like I said, ma'am, 'no disrespect.'"

"You have an odd way of wording things," Sylvia pointed out. "But I get your meaning. I still have business to tend to while I am here…" She lifted her gaze to see Oswald and Butch approaching a woman dressed in a black cocktail dress.

"Fine then," said Tiffany obediently. "Do you have a message you'd like to me tell her?"

"None that needs to be spoken," said Sylvia lightly.

"Yes, ma'am." Tiffany said; she made a small bow and quickly made her way out the door.

In the meantime, Sylvia moved towards the direction in which the uninvited woman stood, speaking to Oswald and Butch.

" _Quite_ the King Solomon you are," she said (was that a hint of sarcasm?), "You had them _nicely_ in line."

"Who are you?" Oswald questioned.

"Tabitha Galavan," she answered coolly. "My brother would very much like to meet you" (She glanced at Sylvia and Butch pointedly) " _Alone._ "

"What are you looking at me like that?" Butch responded defensively. "You don't know me."

"Relax, Butch," said Oswald. To Tabitha, he added, "He has issues. Bi-polar."

"She don't know me," Butch muttered, "I'm just saying."

Oswald inwardly rolled his eyes: "Your brother?"

"Theodore Galavan," said Tabitha. "There's a car waiting for you outside."

Tabitha turned to leave, but Sylvia stepped forward.

"Wait, wait," Sylvia said coolly, "He's not going anywhere alone with you."

Slowly, Tabitha turned on her heel as though she'd just been slapped with a book. Obviously, this woman was not used to hearing the word 'no'. Her eyes narrowed at Sylvia—apparently, this might have intimidated anyone else, but Sylvia remained unaffected.

Butch raised his eyebrows and he took a step back, to state that he wasn't about to be put in proximity between the two women.

"Sylvia, it's fine—" Oswald began.

"No," Sylvia interjected without breaking her glare, "It's _not_ fine."

Tabitha smirked.

"What do you think is going to happen, Mrs. Cobblepot?" she drawled. "It's a meeting. That's all."

"I _don't_ know what's going to happen, but there's no fucking way he's getting in a car with you— **alone**."

"Ooh," Tabitha cooed as she took a step towards Sylvia. "Aren't we jealous…"

Sylvia stepped towards her as well, saying, "You have **no** fucking idea."

"Sylvia, don't be confrontational." Oswald chastised.

"I'm not," said Sylvia defensively.

"Yeah," said Tabitha softly. "Don't be confrontational."

"Pipe down, little lady—you haven't even _seen_ 'confrontational'," Sylvia threatened.

"Pretty sure you're the poster child for it."

Sylvia hissed but Oswald took her arm and pulled her back. Tabitha gave Sylvia a pointed look before she scoffed, "If you're going to be fussy, you might as well come too."

Tabitha walked out of the room; Oswald let Sylvia go.

"Calm down, Pigeon." Oswald said quietly as he and Sylvia walked down the hallway.

"She just bugs me." Sylvia muttered.

"Your jealousy is showing."

"I still think we should have taken Butch with us," Sylvia muttered when she saw the limo parked outside.

"Consider yourself lucky that you were able to come at all," Oswald replied in an undertone.

"You'd have to be stark raving mad to think I'd let you out of my sight," she responded.

"Noted," Oswald returned. He opened the back door, and allowed her inside first. When she crawled in, he followed suit.

Tabitha occupied the passenger seat, speaking in a low voice to the driver.

"Have you ever met this Theo Galavan?" Oswald asked as the limo began to move.

"Random billionaire shows up in Gotham City and no one knows a damn thing about him," said Sylvia quietly. "He's as charming as they come."

Oswald looked at her pointedly, saying, "What do you mean 'charming'?"

Sylvia smirked: "Your jealousy is showing."

He remained on the defensive until she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

* * *

Tabitha guided the Cobblepots through the mansion. While Oswald was content to follow her, Sylvia eyed the walls and the corridor with suspicion.

Forget the fact that she and Tabitha Galavan had already started off on the wrong foot. Forget the fact that this random encounter had only just _now_ happened now that Gotham City was on the bend for leadership now that Aubrey James was (allegedly) 'missing', and the Deputy Mayor had been recently murdered. Whether either of these freak incidents had been purely accidental or planned, Sylvia wasn't sure, but all of this seemed to be happening too quickly.

But that Tabitha Galavan…her very existence made Sylvia _ooze_ cattiness.

Oswald and Sylvia entered the room through which Tabitha suggested entry; Theodore Galavan, the charming Billionaire, sat on the edge of his desk, watching the news reporter speculate the possible candidates for the Mayoral position.

"Mr. Cobblepot," Theo said happily, sliding off the desk and sauntering forward to meet them halfway, "at last, we finally meet!"

"Call me 'Penguin'." Oswald countered politely.

Theo looked at him curiously, saying, "I thought I heard you hated that name."

Oswald shrugged and said contentedly, "It grew on me."

Theo nodded: "'Penguin', it is. And you brought a plus-one!" He grinned broadly at Sylvia, holding out his hand; she looked at him trivially before offering her own, and he kissed the back of it. "Pleasure meeting you again, Mrs. Cobblepot."

"Hmm." Sylvia responded with a half-smile.

Tabitha interjected lightly, "She _insisted_ coming with."

"Well," said Theo, smiling at Sylvia, "I doubted she would hardly say 'no'. I find that it's a daunting task trying to separate the two of you, am I right?"

Oswald and Sylvia glanced at one another, but exchanged smiles either way.

"Now, if that's not a look of True Love," said Theo light-heartedly, "I don't know what is. Please, have a seat…"

He gestured to two chairs sitting opposite of his own, and as he sat at his desk, the Cobblepots took their own.

"How's your head?" Oswald asked.

"Oh, healing. Thank you for asking," said Theo politely. "Gave me quite a scare."

"You were lucky to get out of that situation alive," Oswald noted.

"Wasn't I just?" Theo said, smirking.

Oswald chuckled at the notation. Sylvia remained quiet, observing Galavan for what he was displaying.

This man of social justice, the heroic display on national television. If this man did not become a candidate for the Mayoral position, Gotham's people would likely take up arms and rebel. The reporter described him as being 'good-looking', but perhaps Sylvia was biased; after all, her idea of 'attractive' was her husband, not a random billionaire who seemingly popped up out of the weeds like a daisy in the fall. But she could certainly see why women (and men) might think he was good-looking.

She hated to admit that his sister was a bit of a looker too. It must be the Galavan genes—to look so discernibly attractive.

"Was it luck?" Oswald said knowingly.

Theo allowed an impish smile to cross his face as he said, "You are a clever man. Good timing, dear!" Galavan called, looking over Sylvia and Oswald's shoulders. "Do you know each other?"

Oswald glanced back to see Barbara Kean strolling forward in pink silk pajamas, holding what appeared to be a martini in a triangular-shaped Champagne glass. She grinned beautifully at Oswald, saying, "We've met…"

She rubbed Sylvia's shoulder, saying sweetly, "Hey girlfriend, long time, no see."

Sylvia watched Barbara stop in front of Tabitha, kiss her, and then lean over the table to kiss Theo. Sylvia's eyebrows raised in surprise, but smirking when noticing that the brother and sister were all too comfortable with it.

"The Arkham break-out," Oswald said, realizing the truth. "The GCPD massacre, Jerome and the Maniax…all you. Of course."

Theo raised his hands: "Guilty!" He said mischievously, "It was foolish of me to think I could trick the King of Gotham."

"Here…" Barbara said, pulling focus. She leaned forward and handed the alcoholic beverage to Oswald: "You'll need this more than me."

Oswald took it out of politeness, but placed it on the desk surface.

"I'll go make another," said Barbara sweetly. She stopped by Sylvia's side; the latter looked up at her pointedly. "Do you want anything, Sweetness?"

"No…" Sylvia said slowly. "I'm just peachy."

"Of course, you are," Barbara returned, winking at her. "See you later."

Like before, she rubbed her shoulder. Sylvia watched her leave and looked at Oswald, who was just as puzzled by that interaction. Tabitha and Theo seemed equally perplexed, and Sylvia smiled innocently.

"My sister tells me," Theo continued, "that you are doing a stellar job of organizing your new empire."

Oswald said modestly, "I try."

"Huh," Tabitha scoffed. "You're not the 'King of Gotham'. You're the 'King of Garbage'."

Sylvia narrowed her eyes at her, but Oswald responded first.

"A year ago, I held Fish Mooney's umbrella. Now she is dead by my hand. Along with Maroni. Falcone is in hiding, and his businesses are mine," said Oswald callously. " _They_ underestimated me. I suggest you don't make the _same mistake_."

Sylvia smirked when Tabitha didn't have a prepared comeback. However, Theo was quick to even the ground, to de-escalate the tension.

Standing to his feet, Theo said, "My sister is too blunt. But she is honest. And…she _is_ correct."

Sylvia stood as well, watching Theo move through the room and steadily step towards a table, on which a display sat, shrouded in mystery under a sheet of sorts. Oswald glanced at Sylvia, who followed Theo, her innate curiosity intrigued.

"The foundations of this city were laid 200 years ago," Theo led in his premise, "by some very dedicated people. Now, it's an old crumbling pig-sty, full of human waste."

"Is it lonely up there on your pedestal, Mr. Galavan," said Sylvia nonchalantly.

Theo smirked at her saying, "Your love for this city is admirable, Mrs. Cobblepot. I don't mean to offend."

Sylvia shrugged, unaffected.

"It's time to move to the future," said Theo lowly. "Cleaner…brighter…" (he pulled the sheet off the table, much to Sylvia's relief) "future…"

Unveiled, the table held what appeared to be a display of residential areas in gray blocks, and what idea Galavan had for Gotham was illuminated in luminous bright blue. It obviously caught Oswald's attention for he stood and walked towards the table, standing beside Sylvia, who admired the display.

"You know, when I was a kid," Sylvia reminisced, "My dad had a thing like this in the basement, but it was more detailed."

"When you were a kid," said Theo, "Gotham was likely the same. You're in your twenties, right?"

"I'm thirty." Sylvia returned pointedly.

"I stand corrected," said Theo, holding his hands up. To Oswald, he said kindly, "She has good genes."

"You want to smack my ass, while you're at it, Cupid?" Sylvia questioned smartly.

"I meant no offense," said Theo, smiling politely.

Oswald cleared his throat, and Sylvia looked at him expectantly. Oswald sent her a meaningful look, indicating for her not to be so confrontational. Sylvia shrugged, crossing her arms and leaning her back against the wall.

"Those are residential areas," said Oswald, pointing to the gray blocks. "So, thousands of homes would have to be destroyed, wouldn't they?"

"Yeah, so," Tabitha said carelessly from the sidelines.

Sylvia inwardly scoffed—she was starting to like this woman less, and less.

Theo said smoothly, "Here's the rub: in order to rebuild, I must first destroy. But I can't do that…I mean, watch the news; I'm a hero. But you have a certain _flair_ for such a task."

Sylvia noted that Oswald looked uncomfortable at that moment.

"You, Penguin," said Theo as he curved around the table. "You will be my Destroyer."

Oswald chuckled, "Truly. I'm flattered. And thank you so much for thinking of me. But, my dear sir, you have me all wrong. I have _no_ flair for destruction. I'm a builder—a problem solver…"

"What about her?" Theo asked, glancing indicatively at Sylvia.

"What _about_ me?" Sylvia countered.

"Sylvia—" Oswald chastised.

"What?" Sylvia retorted. "He's talking about me like I'm not here. I'm standing _right_ here."

"Don't be an instigator—we just talked about this," Oswald uttered patiently.

"I'm _not_ instigating anything," she said defensively. "I'm proving a fucking point."

Theo interjected, "Sylvia, are _you_ a destroyer?"

"I can move mountains and hurl Earth towards the sun," said Sylvia, " _for_ the **right** person."

Theo chuckled, "See, it's that brand of confidence—I _love_ it."

"Love to be loved, Mr. G," said Sylvia pointedly, "But I don't do anything without _his_ say-so." She pointed a thumb towards Oswald. "You want anything from me, then your business is with _him_."

Sensing he would get no further with Sylvia, Theo looked to Oswald instead.

"A project like that," said Oswald, "would need the support of hundreds of city officials."

"Yes," agreed Theo. "Only the highest authority would be able to see it through correctly…say, a mayor with a landslide mandate."

Oswald tilted his head forward curiously, saying, "But you are not a candidate."

"I soon will be," sighed Theo, smirking. "By popular demand. However, there _are_ a few who may put that goal in jeopardy—" (Tabitha came over, holding a folder) "and they might even stand a chance at winning. So, they're going to have to go."

Oswald glanced at the aforementioned folder, taking it from her incredulously as he repeated skeptically, "'Go'?"

"And," Theo continued, "I'll need you to take a crack at me also— _and miss_. We can't have the people thinking that I orchestrated the demise of my fellow competitors, can we?"

Sylvia watched Oswald preview the folder, noting that the two candidates were the _only_ two candidates: Caulfield, the environmental activist, and Randall Hobbs, who seemed strong in his goals as well as his morals.

Oswald smiled, but not genuinely. He looked up at Theo, who was expecting a positive response. He didn't get one.

"That's very clever," said Oswald smoothly. "But, alas: I'm not your man." He threw the folder down with finality: " _You_ need an assassin. This is Gotham; you can find them listed in a phonebook, under 'A'."

He winked—cheeky as ever.

Sylvia smiled; she'd never been prouder of him. Then, her phone started buzzing. At first, she thought it might have been a notification: email, maybe, or someone on a 'sharing' binge on Facebook. However, when it continued, she pulled her phone out of the pocket of her jeans, and saw that it was Tiffany calling.

 _Why is she calling…_

Just as Oswald was about to leave, he turned on his heel when Theo said, "Just one moment, Mr. Penguin…."

Oswald glared at him, lips pressed sternly together. Losing his patience.

"I thought you were a man of vision," said Theo, so crestfallen. "Tabitha, would you get the remote? There's a reality show that she absolutely loves to watch. She is _addicted_!"

Sylvia glanced at the Galavan-duo momentarily before picking up on the third phone call.

"Tiffany, why—"

"THEY HAVE HER!" Tiffany bawled.

"What? —Tiffany, calm down, I can't…" Sylvia began, but Tiffany was in tears and shrieking something over the phone. "Tiffany, calm the fuck down—I can't understand a word you're trying to say!"

"They came—they have—I couldn't stop them—"

Sylvia heard the cries and stopped interrogating Tiffany. Tiffany's sobs didn't stop her from breathing, nor did they make her slowly look up at the television; instead, the sobs came from another source. Sylvia dropped the phone and slowly walked forward, realizing they came from the tv screen; she and Oswald peered at it with equal horror as Gertrude's terrified expression appeared, her wrist chained to the foot of the bed. A prisoner.

"Help me—I don't know nothing!" Gertrude cried.

"She's being dull right now…" Tabitha sighed disappointedly. "Sometimes, she'll cry and bang on the door."

Sylvia growled, and turned sharply towards Tabitha; Oswald caught both her arms, and pulled her back. And while he thankfully didn't share in her impulsive act of violence (at least, at the moment), he held the same exact sentiment.

"You'll _pay_ for this," Oswald threatened.

" **That's** the spirit," Tabitha praised, grinning maliciously.

" _They_ die," said Theo icily. "Your mother lives."

The folder was handed to Oswald a second time. Oswald turned back at the TV, and his face contorted with both worry and rage. Sylvia gritted her teeth, glowering at the two.

"And," said Theo smoothly, "I'd try to refrain from telling this secret to your brother, Mrs. Cobblepot. I know how _close_ you and Detective Gordon are, but let me reassure you. If the police get ahold of this…" (He referred to the assassination plot, mainly, but also implying Gertrude's imprisonment) "I can _promise_ that your mother-in-law will meet the same sticky end."

Well, that blew _her_ plan out of the fucking water.

"Now," said Theo proudly. "If I were you two, I'd find a way to get rid of those two in that little envelope, so you can be a reunited family once more. I do _love_ family reunions."

Oswald growled inwardly, walking out of the room.

"Go on, little Fire Dancer," Tabitha whispered, smirking.

"Go deep throat a cactus," Sylvia hissed.

"SYLVIA!"

Tabitha and Theo smirked as Sylvia turned on her heel and stormed out of the room.


	18. Protect This House

Chapter Eighteen: Protect This House

It was Mr. Bell that came to pick up Sylvia and Oswald, as the two declined the limousine ride back to the mansion. While Oswald had been set a-frenzy, it was Sylvia's turn to be calm and somewhat level-headed, although the idea of murdering the fuck out of Theo and Tabitha Galavan had only crossed her mind 700 times on the ride home.

While Oswald furiously mumbled to himself, pacing back and forth in the meeting room, which was thankfully deserted, Sylvia stopped by the living room where Tiffany Rubberdale was lying on the couch; she sported a sprained wrist and a blow to the head, it appeared; Mr. Bell had taken a knee, placing her wrist in a brace.

Piling on the wrist injury was a black eye, and what appeared to be a bloody nose. Sylvia felt a pang of guilt for having sent Tiffany to Gertrude's apartment; had she gone herself, Tiffany might have been spared the pain and her mother-in-law would have had a chance of being protected.

Tiffany, after all, was not the violent type.

"Are you okay?" Sylvia asked softly.

Tiffany startled, seeing her. She was quick to stammer out a pool of apologies; Sylvia held up her hand, and Tiffany quickly silenced. Mr. Bell straightened, glancing stoically between the two women.

"Would you care for anything to eat or drink, Miss Rubberdale?" Mr. Bell asked politely.

"No, I'm fine," said Tiffany quietly.

He turned to Sylvia expectantly.

"Tea, please," Sylvia suggested.

"Yes, ma'am. Right away." Mr. Bell returned; he bowed his head respectfully and strolled away, making sure to glance back to see Tiffany lift her head so Sylvia sat on the cushion where her head had originally lain.

"I tried—" Tiffany began.

"Don't apologize," Sylvia said harshly.

Tiffany pressed her lips together tightly, uncertain as to what to say. It was clear that Sylvia was hurting; her anger was only a mask to cover the pain. Sending Tiffany had not been a mistake, but a miscalculation.

"How many?" Sylvia questioned as she stroked Tiffany's bangs off her head.

"Two." Tiffany squeaked. "Sylvia, I tried to—"

"Please, Tiff. Stop talking."

Once more, Tiffany tightly pressed her lips together. It was hard to unravel the startlingly calm puzzle that was Sylvia Cobblepot. Her soft, motherly strokes through Tiffany's hair, and the gentle cooing sounds were light compared to the cold tone in her voice.

"I don't blame you," Sylvia told Tiffany, looking down at her.

"They had guns…"

"I know," said Sylvia quietly.

"I'm afraid."

"Why?"

Tiffany whispered, "I fear he will blame me…" Her eyes darted towards the meeting room, where Penguin was raising a storm; things were being thrown and glasses were being shattered; Tiffany flinched at each abrasive sound.

"Don't worry about him," said Sylvia gently.

"I couldn't protect her. I'm so, _so_ sorry," Tiffany squeaked.

Sylvia patted her head, and said through a sad smile, "It wouldn't be fair of me to have asked you to. Don't worry about Oswald. Just lie here, and get some rest, okay?"

She eased off the cushion, gingerly lying Tiffany's head back down on the couch. Sylvia gathered an old quilt from the other loveseat and placed it over her, also taking an arm pillow and placing it underneath her feet. Tiffany quietly thanked her, and then closed her eyes. Sylvia looked at her for a moment, with an unblinking gaze; when Mr. Bell came back with a cup of tea, offering it to Sylvia, she took it wordlessly.

"Do you need anything else from me, milady?" Mr. Bell asked softly.

"Call Henry," said Sylvia.

"Ma'am?"

Sylvia drank the full cup of tea, handing it back to Mr. Bell, stating, "He'll have no problem watching over her."

"Sylvia…"

"While you're at it," she continued, "Call Dagger and Chilly."

Mr. Bell stared at her.

"They're the bodyguards at the club," Sylvia answered his unspoken question. "Bring them here, and make sure _she_ " (she pointed at Tiffany) "doesn't get off the couch."

"Ma'am, perhaps you're overreacting…." Mr. Bell began, following Sylvia through the corridor; she was heading towards the kitchen, towards the backdoor. "If you take your guards from the club, who's to stop the rabble from robbing your—"

"My _family_ is being kidnapped right from underneath my fucking nose," Sylvia snapped, turning on him; he stopped walking the moment she wheeled around. "I need people here to protect this house I need my guards _here_ where the rest of my family is." (She meant Oswald, of course, but her eyes flickered to the couch where Tiffany was resting.) "Dagger and Chilly are more than capable of coming here—the club can fend for itself."

Mr. Bell frowned, saying, "I don't mean to question your rationale, Sylvia. But…your club _will_ be left unattended, and unguarded."

Sylvia's jaw tightened as she said darkly, "I'm heading there. The way I am feeling right now, Monsieur Bell, no mugger or burglar would _dare_ mess with me."

Mr. Bell's expression softened to one of pride.

"Why the fuck are you smiling at me?" Sylvia interrogated.

Mr. Bell said softly, "You are turning out to be one of my most gifted students I'd ever had the pleasure of mentoring, ma'am."

Sylvia startled, blinking twice before mustering a small, little smile.

"Thank you," said Sylvia. "Coming from you, that's nice…Um…" She cleared her throat, gesturing towards Tiffany. "Call Henry, please? And the others…"

"And if they don't answer the phone?" Mr. Bell asked.

"Dagger lives in the Narrows," said Sylvia, turning to walk away. "Chilly likes to gamble; if he doesn't answer, he's probably in the alley behind the club, trying to make it in the high-roller life."

Mr. Bell followed her, saying, "I thought he paid off his debt?"

Sylvia chuckled, " **I** paid off a few loan sharks who wanted him dead—if that's what you're asking."

"May ask I why?" He questioned. "A man like him seems irredeemable, at best."

"The debt he owed the loan sharks, he now owes _me_ ," said Sylvia, grinning despite her current situation. "A man as roguish as he—he's a nice guy to have in my pocket."

"He's the Albino, right?"

"Well, I'd like to think we're all colorblind, but if you want to throw shade, yes. He would be the Albino gentleman," said Sylvia. "Dagger is normally in the alley, too, but he does a lot of the dirty work that some of the other waiters won't do for me."

"He likes to play the Bruiser card?"

"Get off your pedestal, Monsieur Bell," Sylvia teased. "You know _you_ like shattering kneecaps just as much as the rest of them do."

Mr. Bell smiled guiltily.

She pulled on her leather jacket. Mr. Bell caught the cue; he left momentarily and came back with two guns and a blade; one weapon was placed in Sylvia's right jacket pocket; the other, between her back and the waistband of her jeans; the knife was strapped against the inside of her boot, just outside her right ankle.

Mr. Bell smirked saying, "One would think you were going to war."

"It's Gotham. We're _always_ at war." Sylvia reminded.

"Touché, milady."

"Watch over Oswald, would you?" Sylvia requested quietly.

"He doesn't know you're leaving?"

"As furious as he is," Sylvia said, "he likely won't even notice until he calms down. By then, I should have everything arranged."

"'Arranged'?" Mr. Bell repeated, concerned.

"I can't give you the specifics," said Sylvia sadly. "But…trust me…things are going to get a little bumpy. Oz and I might be in and out of the mansion, so don't pay any mind."

A beat dropped; Mr. Bell frowned, asking seriously, "Are you in trouble, Sylvia?"

Sylvia said, "Something of that sort."

"The bad sort?" Mr. Bell said knowingly.

"The worse," she answered quietly. "The sort that if I tell you what is going on, people will die."

Mr. Bell raised a hand quickly and said understandingly, "No explanation needed. I trust your judgement."

"Thank you," said Sylvia gratefully.

"I'm here when you need anything from me," Mr. Bell reminded. "I'm not just your cook, after all."

Sylvia smiled. They bowed to each other—not just from cook to mistress, but also from Sensei to student. With that stated, Sylvia left in her own car, heading to the club.

While Oswald would likely take care of Caulfield, Sylvia would coordinate the 'near miss' on Galavan's head. How tempting it would be just to take him out, right then and there. But Galavan had figured everything out, from blackmailing them with Gertrude's life, to figuring out just how and whom to go after.

Despite the appalling degree, Sylvia had to admire just how cunning the billionaire proved to be. A worthy adversary, indeed—and the idea of killing him would to prove to be even sweeter.

* * *

Pulling up to _Lean on Vee's_ was the easiest part of running the club. She had her own parking space. As Sylvia closed her car door, she strode into the club, noticing that the atmosphere hadn't changed despite her absence.

The entertainment tonight were two old-timers, singing and playing instruments, reminiscent of an old rag-time band. The audience seemed appeased enough—even if they weren't, Sylvia could hardly care less.

Her presence wasn't made known, and she liked it that way. As she'd delegated, she met two women on the balcony; this area was the quietest, and least conspicuous. Standing and speaking to the two women was Butch, who'd come as she'd requested.

The first woman was Marcy; she was 25-years-old; every month or so, she had a habit of changing her hair color, and it was mostly based on the mood of the given month. Two months ago, she had bright, neon-pink hair. Last month, it was tinted a deep, forest-green. This month, she had a Cruella DeVil thing going on, one side was ebony, the other was a silvery white. Her make-up regularly matched her choice of hair color, so naturally, one eyelid was dark with black; the other eyelid was smoky white.

The second woman was named Freda; but everyone in the club, including Sylvia, called her 'Starbucks'. She always had a Starbucks cup in her hand—be it a coffee or tea. Like Sylvia, she was naturally redheaded, except she looked more carrot than ginger-rooted. But it suited her with the freckles and the deep amber eyes; like a walking 18-year-old carrot, but with a Starbucks cup.

The two women regularly worked in Sylvia's club; like the rest of her employees, they were barmaids or sometimes the every-now-and-then waitress. The two were also a part of Sylvia's dance team, 'The Firebugs'. Today, they were going to become more.

Butch saw Sylvia before the two girls did, and he readily awaited her command. Sylvia noticed he appeared just as tense as she.

"Hi, Liv." Butch greeted.

At this point in time, she and Butch had been around each other enough that they were able to greet with half-open arms; a half-hug, in a way. She greeted the women in the same respect. Starbucks offered her a drink of her Frappuccino, to which Sylvia politely declined.

"How's the Boss?" Butch asked warily.

"Pissed off," she answered.

"Who put the pipe up his craw?" Marcy asked, glancing between Sylvia and Butch curiously.

Sylvia couldn't help but crack a smile. Marcy was crude, like her. And Sylvia enjoyed that kind of humor.

"Right now, that's irrelevant." Sylvia said dismissively.

"Need-to-know basis only, got it," Starbucks quipped.

"Who are we putting the screws to?" Marcy asked, chewing on a piece of gum. She smacked it with the back of her molars before blowing a larger-than-necessary bubble.

Sylvia leaned forward and popped it with her finger; the pink bubble gum lost its wind and covered Marcy's nose.

"Kindly refrain from that, would you?" Sylvia requested calmly. "My patience is teetering on a _very_ short wire right now, and that's just going to piss me off eventually. So, would you kindly?"

"Sorry," said Marcy; she leaned over the balcony, and spat it out; it landed in a stranger's cup of vodka, and Marcy giggled. "Now, _that_ should be a sport—gum roofies. Ha!"

Starbucks nudged Marcy in the ribs, pulling her back to the situation at hand. Butch and Sylvia exchanged exasperated glances.

"I need a van," said Sylvia, getting to the point. She looked at Butch: "I need you too."

"Well, never thought I'd hear those words—least of all, from you," Butch chuckled.

Marcy giggled, "I know right…" She then made kissy-noises.

"Stop." Sylvia chastised.

"Sorry." Marcy said quickly.

"Galavan is getting decorated tomorrow," said Sylvia. "When he does, we're going to do a drive-by."

"And kill him—got it," Marcy said, clicking her tongue.

"No."

"No?" Butch, Marcy, and Starbucks spoke simultaneously.

Sylvia sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose between two fingers, saying, "No. But yes."

"I'm getting confused," Starbucks said quietly.

"Same," said Marcy.

"We have to make it look like a drive-by," said Sylvia.

"But you _don't_ want us to shoot him?" Marcy questioned, quirking an eyebrow. "Is this a test?"

"It's not a test."

"It sounds like a test."

"IT'S NOT!" Sylvia shouted, glaring at them.

Butch raised his eyebrows, surprised, while the girls glanced at one another, uncertain.

"Okay—it's not a test," said Marcy, hands raised in surrender. "But, Vee-Vee, you have to tell us, right? Why are we gonna near-miss Galavan—like, what's the point, you know?"

Sylvia looked at Butch incredulously; Butch returned the same expression. Sylvia looked at Marcy, who glanced at Starbucks.

"Are we seriously not gonna find out why?" Marcy asked innocently.

"You don't need to know why," said Sylvia harshly. "You just need to do your fucking job, do it right, and move the fuck on."

Marcy took a step back.

"Okay," said Marcy submissively. "I got it."

"Good." Sylvia hissed. She turned to Butch: " _You_ know what to do, right?"

"Shoot and miss, got it," said Butch, nodding.

"At least someone is with the program. Fuck me…" Sylvia mumbled, rolling her eyes exasperatedly at the ceiling. She walked off, while Marcy and Starbucks looked after her.

"She's a little stressed, isn't she?" Starbucks asked quietly.

"That's an understatement," Butch muttered, watching Sylvia shout at the single audience member who was heckling the rag-time band.

"YOU THINK YOU CAN PLAY BETTER THAN THEM? NO? THEN SIT THE FUCK DOWN OR GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CLUB!" Sylvia was shouting.

Marcy said quietly, "I still don't understand why we would pretend to shoot Galavan. I mean, what's he done, other than protect Gotham?"

Butch patted Marcy and Starbucks on the shoulders, saying, "You may never know. Just do what the Queen says, 'kay?"

Marcy shrugged saying, "Queenie's in charge."

"Queenie's angry," said Starbucks, shrugging as she sipped her frappe, glancing down to see Sylvia kick the heckler out of the club.


	19. Safe

Chapter Nineteen: Safe

* * *

Sylvia drove home later, the same night. Her head was pounding—not just from the stress of the day, but for all the effort of maintaining that level of calm that was expected of her on the daily basis in the club.

She didn't get out of the car immediately, even as she turned off the engine and pulled the key out of the ignition. For just a minute, she leaned back in her seat, and looked out the windshield.

 _How did it come to this_?

The thought repeatedly echoed in her mind—not just now—but during times when every last ounce of her will power was ready to bend. She questioned her own resolve, her own strength.

What leader hasn't, though?

Her mother-in-law—the closest thing she had ever had to a mother figure—was trapped somewhere in Gotham…maybe not even in Gotham, maybe outside. The point of the matter was that neither she nor Oswald knew. Somewhere, the little woman was sitting in a cell, in a cage, staring out the door, wondering why on Earth she'd been forced into that corner in the first place?

What had her Oswald done? What kind of trouble was he in?

A mother's thought, surely.

Sylvia closed her eyes. Her throat clenched; her eyelids were heavy. The stifling sound in her throat was more painful to quiet than allowing the soft whimper to leave her lips.

If she'd been with her, would Sylvia's own mother be in the same situation? Maybe. Maybe not. But for certain, Sylvia felt guilty for Gertrude's current predicament.

What if _she_ had gone to the apartment, in Tiffany's stead? Would she have protected her, saved her? Maybe not. But there would have been a better chance at it than when Tiffany had gone. Tiffany wasn't confrontational, not the violent type. For fuck's sake, it had taken Sylvia's own intervention to separate Tiffany from her abusive ex-fiancé.

Sylvia, however, had fended off several men when Fish Mooney and Butch had been after Barbara Kean. With two men, Sylvia would've had them easily on their knees, begging to be spared—sure, she'd have done so because Gertrude would have been present, but that wasn't really the point, was it?

"Fuck…" Sylvia mumbled. She rubbed her face with her palms. "Fuck…"

Sylvia looked at her hands, having forgotten she'd worn foundation today. The oily make-up residue was on her fingers, and she sighed, quietly laughing to herself. Of all the things to whine about!

And her ring…the wedding ring. Sylvia caressed the small little diamond, embedded in the silver band.

Fuck her own predicament. Fuck her own self-pity. Gertrude was held captive—and Oswald was in emotional turmoil. It was _his_ mother, after all—not hers!

"Oh, Mama Gertrude," Sylvia muttered, tilting her head back against the seat. "What the fuck are we going to do…"

After a few more minutes had passed, she slowly opened the car door and stepped out. A gun was placed against her neck; Sylvia jumped, looking quickly to the side to see Mr. Bell standing there, eying her suspiciously. A flashlight lifted and blinded her in the face, and Sylvia cursed.

Mr. Bell quickly apologized.

"What the _fuck_ , man!" Sylvia snapped, rubbing her eyes.

"I'm terribly sorry," said Mr. Bell, more relieved than apologetic. "I saw a car pull up—and I didn't realize it was you."

"Fuck me…" Sylvia mumbled, rubbing her eyelids. "What kind of battery do you have in that fucking torch? You damn near burned my goddamn retinas!"

"Sorry, again," said Mr. Bell, smiling apologetically. "I was able to get a hold of Dagger and…and 'Chilly'. God, why does a man go by that name?"

Sylvia walked towards the mansion, escorted by Mr. Bell who put away his gun.

"He says it's because he's got ice in his veins, I don't fucking know," said Sylvia nonchalantly.

"Quite a lyrical one, isn't he," he noted.

"Quite," she agreed.

When she opened the door, she saw her requested guests sitting in the living room, all of whom appeared well at home.

There was Tiffany, who sat on one cushion, with Henry sitting on the arm of the couch. Beside Tiffany sat Marcy and Starbucks, both of whom looked just as uncertain of their presence as they did now. Since Marcy and Starbucks were undeniably one person, they only occupied one cushion, leaving the last to be occupied by Josh, who was naturally stone-silent.

Dagger stood behind the couch; in comparison to size, he was stockier built than Butch. Big-boned, and muscular, Dagger had arms the size of Sylvia's waist, and a thick neck; he regularly wore turtle-necks, mostly neutral colors. Today, he wore black—befitting, really. His eyes held something of a dead-pan, most of his face was pretty stoic. Dagger was less of a dagger; instead, he was more comparable to a fucking tank.

Chilly stood next to him.

Chilly was, indeed, Albino. Paler-than-thou white skin, and he had amber eyes with a reddish tint. He wore a large ring on his right hand, which actually occupied three of his fingers; across his fist read 'Chilly'. Because…you know…he had 'ice in his veins'.

These eight people that sat in the living room, including Mr. Bell, were Sylvia's Total Force, so to speak. She stood before them, looking at them all. They awaited her next command.

"I don't expect you all to know what's going on," said Sylvia calmly. "For the record, I want to tell you but long story short of it—I can't. You've all worked for me for nearly a year, at the least, right?"

They all agreed unanimously.

"So," said Sylvia, "please try to understand my predicament… _our_ predicament" (she acknowledged Oswald, who stood in the doorway, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, glancing at all of them curiously.)

Marcy raised a hand.

"Yes?" Sylvia called on her.

"Will we ever know why this is happening? Actually… _what_ is happening?" Marcy said gingerly. "Are you in some sort of trouble, Vee-Vee?"

"Something like that," said Sylvia lightly. "But it's not for you to know."

"I can work with that," said Marcy, holding a hand up quickly in any case Sylvia snapped at her. "But, if it's anyone's opinion, I think we should stock up on hand grenades."

"Yeah," said Henry. "Call the fucking Calvary, you know."

"Calvary?" Chilly said, making the people on the couch jump from his grating voice. "We _are_ the fucking Calvary. Say the word, Sylvia—we'll nail these fucking bastards to the fucking wall, you know!"

"Yeah," Dagger said sarcastically. "Just like you 'nailed' those fucking loan sharks, right?"

"Yeah," chuckled Henry. "Leave it up to Sylvia to save your fucking ass."

"Shut up, Henry—" Starbucks hissed. "If it wasn't for her, you know, _you_ would still be slinging dog shit off the rich folks' lawns."

"Shut up, _Freda_ ," Henry snapped. "If it wasn't for her, _you_ would still be prostating your body all over the fucking place—you know, because the only door you could ever open are your legs—"

Starbucks stood to her feet, saying angrily, "For your information, fucker, the correct term is 'prostituting'; 'prostating' isn't a fucking word, and 'prostate' is what's in your fucking ass, you fucking idiot."

"Still, the only door you can open is your legs," Henry reminded callously.

"Fuck you," Starbucks growled.

"Yeah," Marcy backed her up, "Fuck you, you fucking asshole." To Tiffany, she said coldly, "How can you even _date_ that fucking kid?"

"Fuck you," Tiffany snarled.

"Fuck me?" Marcy responded icily. "Fuck **you**!"

" **SHUT UP**!" Sylvia shouted.

Everyone piped down, and looked at her.

"I get it," said Sylvia. "We have a clash of personalities, here. Okay? I got it. But…look, we're family, and right now, that's all we have. Jerome Valeska and the Maniax have pretty much desecrated what we've been trying to build, and until we get things back in line, we need to follow order."

"Well," said Dagger. "So far, the GCPD have that."

"Pardon?" Sylvia questioned.

"They got a new captain," Dagger informed. "Narrows peeps tell me they got some former Marine working for them."

"Fuck the marines," Henry muttered.

"No," Marcy giggled. " _Fuck_ Marines—all bronzy, and muscular—goddamn, I'd sit on a Marine's face any day of the week…"

"Thank you," Sylvia interjected before things started taking a detour. "Look, guys. Seriously. I'm asking you—begging you—please, let us stick together. Okay? Thank you, Dagger, for informing the group about the GCPD…. although, I'm pretty sure I'd find out about it from Jim…"

"Speaking of Jim—," Marcy began mischievously.

"Oh god," Sylvia said quickly, "Please don't tell me your sexual fantasies regarding my brother."

Marcy shrugged and leaned back in the couch saying, "Fine…but oh my lawwwwwd…"

Sylvia rubbed her face with both hands.

"Stick together," said Sylvia. "That's the point of this meeting, okay? Stick together, look after each other. Don't do anything brash."

"Sure," said Dagger, nodding.

"Sure, sure," said Chilly.

"Agreed," said Marcy and Starbucks.

"Fine," said Henry, shrugging carelessly.

"Yes, ma'am," said Mr. Bell, smiling.

"Of course," said Tiffany. "But I can't do anything anyway—I'm kinda bed-ridden to this couch, you know."

"Right now," said Sylvia, "you all have one duty for tonight: Protect each other."

Everyone nodded and they were dismissed. Per Sylvia's permission, Tiffany—with Henry's help—limped off the couch and headed towards one of the guest bedrooms. Sylvia watched them all depart, looking after them with a second glance before plopping down on the couch they'd all just previously occupied. She crossed her arms and placed them over her head, sighing deeply.

"If they're all protecting one another, who, then, is protecting you?"

Sylvia lowered her arms, seeing Oswald fully enter the room after hearing the speech. He looked just as exhausted, if not more. Sylvia watched him approach her; he made a gesture for her to raise her head; in doing so, he sat down and she rested her head in his lap.

"You are," she answered his question. "You'll be protecting me."

"I try," said Oswald softly.

"We'll get through this, babe," Sylvia promised.

Oswald looked unconvinced, but smiled at her, regardless.

"They respect you," Oswald pointed out, looking to see Dagger and Chilly debating who would guard the front door and who'd take the back in the kitchen.

"Respect and fear are easily mistaken for one another," said Sylvia quietly, looking up at him.

He brushed her bangs off her forehead, similar to how Sylvia had done with Tiffany's.

"They're scared of _me_ ," said Oswald, smirking at her. "They're scared of you too, but there's more than that."

He continued to stroke her hair back, combing it across his lap. Sylvia smiled; it was not just comforting her, but it was also a comfort to him. Whatever happened—good or bad—they were the other's constant, the definite.

"Mmm," she hummed back at him, closing her eyes. "You're putting me to sleep, Ozzie."

"Where did you run off to?" Oswald asked.

Sylvia opened her eyes, looking up at him; she smirked, saying, "You noticed, did you?"

"I noticed the moment you'd left."

"I went to the club."

"For what reason?"

"To check up on things, mostly," said Sylvia. "Marcy and Freda are taking the van; Butch will be the one to pretend-shoot at Galavan."

Oswald sighed, obviously afflicted. His lips pressed tightly together, forming a thin line. Worry reflected in his eyes; Sylvia lifted her hand, caressing his tightened jaw. He glanced down at her.

"Kiss me." Sylvia whispered.

"Pigeon—"

"Do it."

Oswald leaned forward, and kissed her briefly. She returned it, catching him with her arm around his neck so he wouldn't withdraw too quickly.

"You're terrified," Sylvia uttered softly. "I can see it…but you have every reason to be."

"Hiding it from you is the hardest thing I've ever had to do," Oswald mumbled against her lips.

"You don't have to pretend around me," Sylvia reminded. She nuzzled his cheek. "With me, you're safe."

"I thought _I_ was protecting _you_."

"A Queen always protects her King," Sylvia reminded, smirking at him. "The only thing I learned from playing chess."

"I didn't know you played."

"I don't," Sylvia snorted, grinning widely. "I'd normally take the Knight pieces and pretend they were grazing in a field. Black stallions, white mares…"

Oswald said quietly, "The moment we get the opportunity, we're taking down Galavan and his sister."

"You take Theo, if I get the sister," Sylvia whispered impishly.

"How would you do it?" Oswald asked curiously.

"I'd learn her fears," she said darkly. "I'd learn everything about her. And I'd slowly torture her in ways that she could not even possibly imagine. Slowly. Intimately." She lifted her head and kissed Oswald's bottom lip, smirking up at him. "It wouldn't be quick. It'd last for _days_."

Oswald smirked at her saying, "It's a wonder how often I forget this sadistic half of you."

"That's because my other half is so fucking cute," said Sylvia, winking at him.

"You're not wrong," Oswald admitted, grinning back at her, despite his anxiety.

"Kiss me again," she said.

This time, Oswald didn't protest.


	20. Depression Is A Prick

Chapter Twenty: Depression is a Prick

* * *

The plan to hit (and miss) Galavan went off without a hitch. By the afternoon, in hour's record time, the reporters were all over the news, talking about how after Gotham's filth had a go at him, it was _then_ that he decided to throw his hat into the ring. Sylvia sat on the couch, watching the news, wanting to vomit. In her hand, she held a banana daiquiri, mixed and flavored by Mr. Bell, who stood behind her and the couch, watching the news with equal disgust.

Sylvia flipped the channel to something less morbid.

"He's a bit of a character, isn't he," said Mr. Bell, curving around the couch to sit beside Sylvia.

"That's a polite way of saying it," said Sylvia, glancing at him.

"A fucking cockwaffle, more like…" said Marcy, rounding the corner and walking into the living room, holding a glass of champagne.

Sylvia snorted, "That's…a little better."

Marcy sat on the other side of Sylvia, offering two Advil PMs. Instead, Sylvia pushed her hand away.

"You're not sleeping, Vee-Vee," Marcy said quietly.

"I can't sleep." Sylvia returned, glowering at her. "Besides, mixing medication and liquor—not the brightest idea in the history of mankind, just so you know."

"I guess it wouldn't matter that I'm just trying to help?" Marcy said, crossing her legs on the couch.

Sylvia stood, letting out a scathing noise, before walking away and into her and Oswald's bedroom, closing and locking the door. Mr. Bell looked after the direction in which she'd gone while Marcy rolled her eyes.

"I _am_ trying to help— **you** can see that, can't you?" Marcy asked.

"More than anyone," Mr. Bell reassured. "But Sylvia…she isn't one who asks or accepts help too easily."

"Perhaps I should have just dropped the PM in her drink," Marcy suggested.

"Well, no—but I like your way of thinking," said Mr. Bell, grinning broadly.

* * *

In the darkness that was the bedroom, Sylvia lied on her stomach, smothering her face in the pillows. When she slowly inhaled, a sense of calm came over her: Oswald's cologne. She moved to his side of the bed, and sighed deeply—his scent.

Depression was not a single emotion, but a mixture. But it hit her like a ton of bricks as she lied in bed, on her back, staring up at the seemingly non-existent but ever so present black hole that was the darkness of the ceiling.

Even the sunset, which normally granted her some type of happiness and solace, failed to relieve her of the dread.

What if—despite everything she and Oswald had done—Galavan and his sister didn't give up Gertrude. They could kill Caulfield (as Oswald was doing tonight), and they could come after Hobbs—but what if they did their part, and the Galavans didn't honor theirs.

She knew that's how it would work out. The villains of this piece would not be so honorable. During a time, at least when Falcone and Maroni were running things, the thieves and mobsters had a fucking code. People like Galavan had no sense of the word 'honor'.

Never once did Sylvia think that things would have been better under Falcone. While it was nice not having Oswald pressed under the man's thumb, she wondered if maybe she and Oswald were running things all wrong.

Self-doubt was a fucking prick of a monster.

"Sylvia…"

That was Tiffany outside the door, knocking lightly.

Sylvia closed her eyes, turning to her side. She didn't want to hear the apologies again. She was so fucking tired of hearing people say they were sorry. Sorry for _what_? They hadn't orchestrated Gertrude's kidnapping…they hadn't become responsible for the fucking train wreck that was her and Oswald's life presently!

"Sylvia."

"Go. Away." Sylvia groaned.

"You have to eat something," said Tiffany gingerly from behind the door. She tried jiggling the handle—it was a good thing Sylvia had thought to lock it. "Sylvia, please…"

"I said 'go away'!" Sylvia shouted. "For fuck's sake, I just want to be left alone!"

Footsteps shuffled from the door, and she sighed in exasperation. She slipped into sleep, and then she woke up to the soft knocking on the door once more.

"I said 'go away'!" Sylvia growled.

"Pigeon…"

The soft tone might as well had been a call. Sylvia bit her lip, compromising—she wouldn't see anyone but she wanted more than anything to see Oswald. It was a pain just to climb out of the bed, even more to walk towards the door. Her entire body ached, despite not having done anything all day.

When she opened the door, he was there in the lime light. He'd changed his clothes, which probably had been splattered with blood. Now, he wore his familiar black pajamas. His hair was matted, wet—looks like he'd just taken a shower.

"How'd it go?" She asked quietly.

"One down," Oswald replied.

"One to go," Sylvia finished.

Oswald closed the door; he joined her in the bed, lifting up the covers. Sylvia pulled him to her, knowing he secretly preferred to be the little spoon. Especially in such a time as this. His back pressed against her chest; she nuzzled his neck.

"How do you want to get rid of Hobbs?" Sylvia asked.

"I don't know yet."

"I can do it," she suggested.

"No."

"I'll take Victor with me," Sylvia offered. "Besides, Hobbs is, like, fifty. He's got twenty years on me, easy."

"He'll have men," Oswald muttered.

"I have _me_ ," Sylvia reminded.

"You're not going after him," Oswald said quietly.

"But—"

Oswald turned, full body and all. In the darkness, one couldn't really see anything. But as their eyes had adjusted, Sylvia could see his expression without having to completely see his face. His body had tensed against hers, and now, he held her hand in almost a vice-like grip.

"I'm not sending you." Oswald said coldly.

"Fine, then." Sylvia whispered. "Fine. But…just so you know…I'm not _just_ your wife, you know."

"I know." Oswald said. He pulled her to him, his arms wrapped around her body.

He said nothing more about the subject.

She slipped her hand underneath his shirt, and placed her palm over the skin, where underneath his heart raced. Just the thought of Sylvia confronting the mayoral candidate had Oswald jumpy and fleeting.

Galavan had his mother. That was enough to worry about. But the thought of Sylvia being gunned down by Hobbs' men was just too much to bear.

"Ozzie." Sylvia whispered, breaking the silence.

"Yes?"

"I love you."

Oswald kissed her forehead, saying, "I love you too, pigeon."

She nuzzled his neck, his skin radiating enough heat to warm them both. And somehow, just having that, was enough for Sylvia to fall back to sleep.


	21. A Mother's Flock

Chapter Twenty-One: A Mother's Flock

* * *

Sylvia sat in the backseat of the four-seater car. Butch was in the driver's seat; Oswald, in the passenger's. For the longest time, they were silent, that was until Butch sighed, glancing at his watch before pointing to the leveled building some twenty yards away.

"Hobbs' campaign office," said Butch, "is the entire second floor." He glanced at Oswald: "Are you sure about this?"

Oswald said (with some attempt of calm): "Don't worry, I've got it under control."

Butch glanced back at Sylvia, who intentionally avoided his gaze as she became more attentive towards the rainy weather. She was primarily concerned with waiting for the second car to pull up. Butch gave her a once-over, furrowing his eyebrows at the both of them before he finally sighed.

"Okay, you two, you have _got_ to tell me what the hell is going on," said Butch, looking at both of them. "I _know_ I have to do **whatever** you say, but at least tell me _why_ we are doing it."

Oswald looked at him after a brief pause: "They have my mother, Butch."

 _Immediate_ confusion.

"Who?" Butch asked.

"Galavan and his sister," Oswald answered. "They have her. They're making me do this."

"Holy smokes," Butch whispered, shaking his head. "We've gotta find your mom."

"If they find out we're looking, they'll hurt her." Oswald said quietly.

"Don't worry," Butch reassured. "We'll find her."

Oswald nodded, welcoming that smallest amount of comfort. A moment of silence passed. Sylvia leaned forward in between them, looking at Butch.

"For what it's worth, Butchy," she said smoothly, "I can definitely see why Fish kept you around."

Butch glanced at her, saying, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're an alright guy," Sylvia said, patting him on the shoulder. "New respect for you, Boo."

Butch gave her a weird look, turning to Oswald as if requesting further explanation on the fact but Oswald gave him none. Another car pulled up.

Oswald glanced at Sylvia, giving the cue.

"Be right back," Sylvia said quickly, getting out of the car.

"Where is _she_ going?" Butch asked.

"She's going to talk to Victor," said Oswald calmly.

"What's there to talk about?" Butch said incredulously. "She's not going in there with him, is she?"

"Of course not," Oswald quipped.

"Good…" Butch muttered, shaking his head.

Oswald sent him a look.

"I can pretty much handle finding your mom," said Butch, letting out a sigh of relief. "If Galavan and his sister ever got a hold of Sylvia, we'd have one hell of a war on our hands—talk about a helluva massacre."

Oswald shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I can only imagine what she must be feeling," said Butch, glancing at the rearview mirror where Victor, in all of his black-suited glory, stood speaking to Sylvia; they were leaned against the hood of Victor's car.

"Meaning?" Oswald questioned.

"Sylvia's a primal woman," said Butch. "She's not just protective of you. Anyone messes with any of the sheep of her flock, and you know they've got another thing coming! No, thank you!"

Oswald smiled in spite of himself.

* * *

"Second floor," Victor said calmly, glancing at the building. "All of the second floor?"

"Yes," said Sylvia.

"Mind telling me why we're going after this Randall guy again?"

"Do you need to know the sordid details?" Sylvia questioned, placing her hands on her hips.

"No, but it's always good to know—you know, in any case I get arrested by the GCPD," said Victor seriously.

A beat passed and Sylvia and Victor were laughing.

"Are you doing all right?" Victor asked, looking her over.

"That's a bit of a loaded question," she answered.

The slightest softening of his expression reflected all the concern possible.

"Get in," said Sylvia, pointing at the building. "And kill this guy."

"Any method you'd prefer?"

"Quick would be my preference, but you do your own thing, Victor." Sylvia responded, shrugging. "You know me, though. I'm a 'knife' kinda gal, not your typical gun-toting lady."

"Says the one who has two of them," said Victor, eying the Glock in her jacket and the one that was surely strapped between her back and waistband; after all, he'd been the one to spin her up on the all-too-awesome shooting styles (not that she ever used them).

"Stop flirting," said Sylvia, smirking at him.

"Well, what can I say?" said Victor, shrugging. "I miss those days when you and I would go on a man-hunt."

"Reminisce another time," Sylvia reminded.

"Sure thing. I'll take care of him," said Victor. "You have nothing to worry about."

"Thanks." Sylvia said, smiling happily at him. She started back to the car.

"Liv."

She looked at Victor.

"What?" she asked.

"If you need anything from me, you need only ask," said Victor, nodding towards her respectfully.

"You're way too professional to be a hitman, you know that?"

"Noted," Victor sighed, smirking when she rolled her eyes back at him.

* * *

Sylvia climbed into the passenger seat, closing the door on her way in. Oswald and Butch looked at her, even as she buckled her seat belt.

"What?" Sylvia questioned.

"You and Victor are a little chummy these days," Butch stated.

"Stand down," Sylvia said sardonically. "It's nothing."

Butch looked at Oswald, more expectant of a response. Instead, Oswald said, "They're like an office couple."

Seeing that neither had a problem with this, Butch figured he didn't either. They drove off while Victor moved forward.


	22. Jim and Sylvia ArgueAgain

Chapter Twenty-Two: Jim and Sylvia Argue…Again.

A/N: I've been waiting to write this chapter since I started this trilogy! WOO! It's finally here! :D

* * *

Sylvia moved through the mansion, her bare feet were soft, padded footsteps throughout. Oswald sat in the meeting room at the head of the table, on his throne, eyes looking at the table, but his mind was pre-occupied.

She placed a glass of water in front of him, and a package of two Alka-Seltzers. Oswald looked at her wordlessly, but was thankful when she didn't warrant any verbal response. She caressed his face in the palm of her hand, and kissed his forehead. And that was enough.

"Hey, man, you can't go in there!" Henry's voice was heard before Detective Jim Gordon entered the room.

"You killed Caulfield," Jim stated with what appeared to be calm. "We have a witness."

Oswald glanced at him but said nothing.

"And the attempt on Galavan, was that you too?" Jim interrogated.

"Not now," Oswald warned tiredly.

"And Hobbs!" Jim continued, ignoring him. "You sent Zsasz there!"

Oswald restrained to snap, instead said firmly, "It's complicated. Okay?"

"What does it profit you to mess with the election?" Jim questioned. "You have your own sordid empire to look after."

Patiently, Oswald said, "Walk away, Jim. Let me be."

But Jim seemed to be in antagonizing mood as he insisted, "The GCPD has new leadership…"

"James," Sylvia began.

Jim continued without interruption, "No more deals, no more favors. If they find out you're behind the attacks, we will come after you and—"

"ROUSING SPEECH!" Oswald shouted, standing up suddenly. "Really. Goosebumps!"

Jim stared at him, affronted. Like he wasn't just berating him.

"But," said Oswald shakily, "You came here _alone_ , Jim. No warrant, no cuffs, and no back-up. And why? Because you would hate to have your new captain find out about how you gunned down Ogden Barker in cold blood. Over a debt! A debt to _me_!"

Jim frowned deeply, saying, "He was trying to kill me."

Oswald retorted, "Where are your _witnesses_. And _just_ the day before, I suppose you did _not_ ask me to run Commissioner Loeb out of town so that you can get your old job back!"

Jim glared. Oswald's gaze didn't falter. Jim inwardly growled, walking away. He stopped at the end of the table, and turned.

"I'll face whatever's coming to me," said Jim.

"As will I," said Oswald.

Sylvia glanced between them; Jim left the room, and Oswald sat down, looking more upset than when the day had started out. Sylvia let out a harsh sigh before leaving the room—this time, Oswald didn't even try to stop her.

"James!" Sylvia shouted.

Jim kept walking, through the living room, even where Dagger, Chilly, Henry, and Mr. Bell remained vigil. They watched her storm after him. Jim was already halfway down the sidewalk before Sylvia caught his arm, roughly spinning him around.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" Sylvia shouted.

"What do you mean 'what the fuck'?" Jim questioned incredulously.

"You just think you can storm in and out as you goddam please?" Sylvia questioned. "No 'hello', no 'good-bye'. You just do whatever you fucking want?"

"He killed Caulfield," Jim said, pointing sharply at the mansion.

"I can neither confirm nor deny—"

"Oh my god, Vee," Jim growled. "You're seriously going to protect him—after all this time!"

"YES!" Sylvia responded angrily. "I am going to protect him after all this time. He's my fucking husband. Why don't you—for once—start acting like my fucking brother."

"We have a witness," said Jim. "The GCPD will be coming after him."

"Tell me something I don't fucking know," Sylvia countered. "We are not even talking about Caulfield or anyone for that matter. You just _barged_ into my fucking home, interrogated my husband, and then left without so much as a 'hello' or 'good-bye'. Can't you see where that might be a _little_ fucked up?"

Jim rolled his eyes, and started leaving.

"Don't you fucking roll your eyes at me, that's fucking rude!" Sylvia snapped.

Jim turned around, and stared at her, saying helplessly, "What the hell do you want from me, Vee? What do you want?"

Sylvia crossed her arms saying, "I've not heard from you. In days. It's like nothing between us has changed—no matter what has happened in the past—you still only come to my home when you want something."

"I didn't want anything from you—"

"You stormed inside _my_ home, shouted at _my_ husband, and then stormed off," said Sylvia. "Whatever he said to you might as well have been said under duress—and your fucking interrogation skills are lacking, buddy."

Jim said with attempted calm, "Vee, I'm serious. The GCPD has new leadership—"

"Yeah, I know," Sylvia interrupted. "Led by the former Marine, Captain Nathaniel Barnes. Color me fucking shocked. Let me guess: he's an idealist, much like you once were, before you became jaded and cynical. And a fucking hypocrite."

"I'm not a hypocrite—"

"And now you're a liar—"

"Hell, can we have one interaction that does not involve us screaming at each other?" Jim questioned incredulously.

"That depends," said Sylvia, lowering her voice to a normal level. "How much longer are you going to keep making yourself look like the victim when, really, you're a constant problem for me?"

Jim looked taken aback.

"We hardly talk—so how am I problem for you?" Jim asked.

Sylvia gesticulated violently towards the mansion, her sarcastic expression more than enough to point out the obvious as to what just happened.

"I came to warn him," said Jim.

"You fucking _shouted_ at him." Sylvia corrected.

"Because he shouted at me—"

"He told you to leave him alone, but you insisted on bothering him—"

"—Oh my god, don't you mother him—"

"—I'm not fucking mothering him—"

Jim threw his hands up in the air, and let out a frustrated sigh.

"Again, Vee— _What do you want from me_!"

Sylvia glowered at him, saying, "I want you to either be a part of my family, or not at all."

Jim stared at her and said coolly, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're a cop one day, and my brother the next. It's hard to tell _just_ exactly what you are to me," said Sylvia coldly. "You want to be a cop—fine. But the next time you want to barge into my home and verbally attack my family, you best have a signed warrant."

"Sylvia—"

"I'm fucking serious, James," said Sylvia harshly.

"Those people," said Jim, pointing at the house that contained what he only saw were a group of criminals, "are not your family. They're thieves, and murderers, and thugs—"

"And what are you, huh!" Sylvia snapped. "You killed Barker. You broke into a place that was not your own, without a warrant, without any backup, so you could blackmail Commissioner Loeb with his own fucking daughter. That's murder, thievery, and thuggish behavior _right_ there."

"Sylvia, that's different."

"Oh!" Sylvia snapped. "I see, so when it excels _your_ agenda, it's justice. But when it somehow vindicates _my_ agenda, it's a crime."

Jim groaned, "I can't believe we're having this same argument again."

"Well, we won't have to have this argument again," said Sylvia curtly. "You want to see me next time, or interrogate my household, you're more than welcome to—bring a warrant, bring your fucking second-in-command, Harvey Bullock, and—hell—maybe even bring some back-up because the next time you decide to storm inside and attack my family, I'll fucking attack you on principle."

Jim stared at her. Sylvia waited for his response, but he had none. At least, not at the time. She started walking away, but Jim stepped forward. She turned around, expectantly.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Jim asked incredulously.

"What do you mean 'what the hell is wrong'. I just told you."

"You're acting…different," said Jim.

"Who knows—maybe the criminal life is finally starting to take a toll on me, or maybe I'm just really fucking fed up with your hypocrisy," said Sylvia, shrugging her shoulders. "It could be a bunch of things."

Jim looked at her, like _really_ looked at her. He took her hand, pulling her towards him. She stared at him, looking at him oddly. What the fuck was he doing?

"You're in trouble," said Jim quietly. "Aren't you?"

"Even if I was," said Sylvia darkly, "You wouldn't be able to help me."

She jerked her hand away from him.

"If you're in trouble, Vee," said Jim earnestly, "I need to know."

Sylvia bit her lip. There, he was. _That_ was her brother. How many times had they found themselves in this very situation back when they were kids?

"Tell me," Jim insisted. "Someone is threatening you—I can tell by your face, I'm right. Tell me who."

Sylvia smiled sadly, saying, "The one time you want to be my brother is the one time I have to accept you for what you truly are."

"Which is what?" Jim said uncertainly.

"A cop." She said meekly.

She touched his shoulder, patting it gently.

"Vee—"

"Go home, Jimmy," Sylvia said quietly. "Go home."

Seeing Sylvia's wall barrier for what it was and knowing there was no way of breaking it currently, Jim surrendered; he got into his car, and pulled out of the driveway.


	23. Queenie's Party And A House-Call

Chapter 23: Queenie's Party/A House-Call

"Fully stocked on all commodities, and we're three months' ahead of bills," Tiffany reported as she flipped the pages of her clipboard. "Valeska's wreak of havoc may have put a dent in our system, but I think we'll make an impressive comeback."

Sylvia glanced at her distractedly.

The two women were sitting on the balcony of _Lean on Vee's,_ a single table between club, for the moment, was vacant, all except for the servers, Henry and Josh, who were making their money's worth as a few regular patrons entered and ordered the menu. There was some mild celebration happening for someone who had made Partner at some grand, but unnameable, business. The rendition of the celebration was making money for the club so Sylvia intentionally ignored the ruckus that came with it.

She and Tiffany were going over reports. While Tiffany had nothing bad to report, Sylvia's mouth hadn't even twitched upwards. Tiffany placed the clipboard softly on the table, and looked at her boss.

"You're not pleased," said Tiffany, giving her a once-over. "Did I do something wrong?"

Sylvia looked at her, saying, "You've not done anything wrong."

"Are you not happy with the direction the club is going?"

"The direction of the club is fine," said Sylvia distractedly. She solemnly took a drink of her martini and placed it on the napkin on which it had sat previously; the drink had sat so long now, the napkin was becoming more of a soggy surface.

Tiffany licked her lips nervously. Sylvia's standoffishness made her more unnerved than anything else that had happened in the past. No one need ask her why she was so rigid—her mother-in-law was being held hostage by a man who had the outward appearance of a hero, but he was something not many would dare to trifle with. A woman of action as she proved to be in the past, Sylvia was hankering to shoot Galavan in the balls.

Sylvia's aggressive impulses were being stifled not just by Galavan, but also by Penguin, who emphasized caution when dealing with him.

Standoffishness had become an understatement; instead, Tiffany sensed hostility.

"Do you still blame me for what happened?" Tiffany asked meekly.

Sylvia's eyes darted from the brash display of celebration taking place below them to Tiffany; her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and a hard smile replaced the pursing lips.

"No." Sylvia said quietly. "I don't."

"If I was stronger, I could have saved her," said Tiffany.

"You're physically weak," Sylvia said calmly. "You have the upper body strength of a meerkat. There was no way you could have saved both Gertrude and yourself, and if I am being brutally honest: It wasn't your _place_ to save her."

Tiffany frowned, saying, "I understand what you're going through, Liv—"

" _Do_ you?" Sylvia responded irritably.

Tiffany hesitated.

"Look, I tried my best, Liv," Tiffany insisted weakly. "I _really_ did. But, it's like you said: they're bigger than me, and you know I'm not the confrontational type..."

Sylvia stood to her feet, drank the rest of the martini, and sat it on the table, hard. Hard enough that it made Tiffany flinch as though she'd thrown a book at her.

"You're fishing for sympathy," said Sylvia coldly. "Gertrude had been taken by _Galavan's_ men. I don't blame you for what happened and I never did. _I_ keep telling you it's not your fault. But you keep apologizing—and it's really starting to piss me off."

Tiffany winced at the harsh tone.

"I'm sorry they beat the shit out of you," said Sylvia. "But this" (she gestured the entire club in reference) "is not about you. It was about sending a message, and they've sent it. You feel guilty that this happened, I get it. But I'm telling you to forget about it. You won't—or maybe, you can't. Because deep down, you're certain you _could_ have done something to protect Gertrude. And maybe that's why you're constantly telling me you're sorry. Whatever the reason for feeling it was your fault, I don't care. Just stop apologizing for something that isn't your fault."

Tiffany frowned saying, "I'm just saying—"

"I know what you're saying. You've already said it," said Sylvia coldly. "A thousand times, you've said it. _You're sorry._ Fine. Good. Now, would you _please_ stop thinking you are the one to blame. If anyone is to blame, it's _Galavan_. And believe me. When I get the chance, I will rip out his spine and shove it in a place the sun doesn't shine."

Tiffany leaned forward and opened her mouth to say something, to say _anything_ , but nothing came out. Sylvia held up a hand; she didn't want to hear it.

When the crowd below started getting loud again, Sylvia let out a frustrated sigh; she leaned over the railing.

"Get out!" Sylvia bellowed.

Henry and Josh, who had been serving the gentlemen another round of drinks, glanced up at her curiously; the guests chuckled at one another.

"EVERYONE OUT!" Sylvia growled.

Seeing that she was serious, the gentlemen quickly excused themselves and left the vicinity without another word (at least to her face). Henry, Josh, and Tiffany looked at Sylvia from their respective positions and Sylvia ignored them all, walking down the stairs and sitting on a pew at the bar counter.

"Having a rough day?" Henry asked sardonically.

"Shut up." Sylvia ordered.

Tiffany walked down the stairs and joined them at the bar counter. She didn't say anything though. Josh looked ready to help in any way he can, standing beside Sylvia like he was her own personal umbrella boy. Sylvia glanced at the lot before requesting a second martini; Henry placed a glass down and took the booze from the top shelf, making her request quickly and placed it before her on the counter.

"We know you're upset about Gertrude," Tiffany consoled. "But, Liv—"

"I know. I shouldn't take it out on you." Sylvia said quickly, closing her eyes in an attempt to calm herself down.

Josh and Henry glanced at each other, but neither had any readable expressions. While Tiffany had survived the electric shock of being reprimanded, there was still a part of her that wanted to seek out Sylvia's forgiveness. Tiffany sat beside her boss, and placed a hand gently on Sylvia's.

Sylvia glanced at it curiously.

"You're not alone," said Tiffany quietly. "You're not alone in this. You have _us_."

"Yeah," agreed Henry. "Just tell us what to do to make you happy, and you bet your fine ass, we'll be on top of it...on top of your command, not...not on top of your ass."

Tiffany gave him a look and Henry was starting to turn red.

"Well, you know what I mean," Henry said quickly. "Like, on top of whatever you want us to do, not on top of you...or-or your ass. Oh my god, it's getting worse."

"Just shush," said Tiffany.

"No problem," said Henry, clearing his throat after.

Sylvia allowed herself a small smile.

Josh placed an abnormally large hand on Sylvia's shoulder and she looked at him quizzically.

"If you want us to kidnap anyone, I know a guy that's pretty good at doing things like that," said Josh, grinning.

"Fuck hiring outside the House," said Henry, crossing his arms and leaning over the counter. "We can do it ourselves."

"You're too loud," Josh pointed out. "If we sneak into anyone's homes, we're gonna need quieter people."

"I can do that, no problem," said Henry. "I've been doing that for a long time. Haven't I, Sweet Cheeks?" (He referred to Tiffany, who rolled her eyes.) "We've got this thing down to a science."

"I hope you're referring to the kidnapping," muttered Josh. "I don't wanna know what happens under the bed."

"You mean 'under the sheets'," Tiffany corrected.

Josh turned a shade of beet red.

"Then again," said Henry roguishly, "We've not tried it under the bed."

The door opened and Sylvia glanced from the trio to see Marcy and Freda (AKA Starbucks) coming through them. Marcy wore her usual black-and-white hair job, and with it, she had on a red shirt, black leggings, and white sandals; her make-up matched her hair, except for the bright orange lipstick. Starbucks was on her left-hand side, wearing the same clothes as Marcy. As always, she had a Frappe in her hand.

"What'd you say to those grumpy men, Vee-Vee?" Marcy asked Sylvia, throwing her thumb indicatively over her shoulder. "They were saying some libel-shit about you."

Tiffany chuckled, "Sylvia threw them out of the club for being too loud. They _were_ being loud."

Marcy quirked an eyebrow saying, "The dickmuffins are _always_ loud. What's the difference?"

Starbucks offered everyone a taste of her Frappe; everyone declined.

"You kicked people out a lot earlier than usual," said Marcy as she plopped down on a pew, crossing her legs like an Indian. "What's gotten you so wrapped up in the heat and fire?"

"She's upset about Gertrude," Josh said quietly.

"Just rain some Haytorade," said Marcy, wiggling her fingers and raising them above her head. "Show the _Man_ that you can't be pushed around. Give that dick-little-licker a taste of his piss."

Sylvia stared at her saying, "I have _no_ idea what you just said, but I like your enthusiasm."

"Yeah," said Starbucks slowly, "There's no fucking way I'm getting close to that man's pecker to taste his piss."

"I don't think she meant it literally," Tiffany pointed out.

Marcy smirked saying, "I don't know, guys. That Galavan is pretty cute."

Sylvia glared at her.

"But he's also fucking evil," said Marcy quickly to elude Sylvia's stink eye. "This whole game he's got is pretty sick—and sick in a disgusting way, not in the 'awesome' way."

"We should light his stuff on fire," said Josh.

Henry smirked saying, "For once, we're in agreement."

"Then we'll be on his bad side," Tiffany reminded. "He has one of our own, remember?"

"We find Gertrude," said Henry, "We get her out of...fuck...wherever he has her hidden, and then we nail his bitch-ass."

"Yeah!" Marcy said. "We'll bring the screws to him."

"Have you all been smoking dope?" said Tiffany incredulously. "Where's all this energy coming from? You weren't this enthusiastic when I was telling you all to clean the tables..."

"That's chore stuff," said Henry slyly. "Babe, this is like the real adult shit."

"Well, this _real_ adult," said Tiffany coolly, "is telling you _real_ teenagers to calm the fuck down."

Henry hopped onto the counter, shouting, "I CAN'T BE TAMED, MOTHER FUCKERS!"

"Get off the counter," Sylvia ordered.

"Yes, ma'am," said Henry, sitting down next to Tiffany, who chuckled at his immediate submission.

"We _do_ need to find her," Josh said softly.

Sylvia turned to him, saying, "And how do you suppose we do that exactly?"

"One of us gets close to him," said Marcy, smirking. " _I_ can probably do that."

"None of us can do that," said Starbucks.

"Girl, you have _no_ faith."

"I'm just saying," said Starbucks, "Galavan has seen us. He _knows_ us."

Henry scoffed, "He doesn't know _shit_ about me."

"He knows you're loyal to Sylvia," said Starbucks smartly. "And he knows all of us wouldn't betray her just to get on his 'good side'. Even if we could get away with it, who's to say how long it would be before we could find Gertrude."

"We could get the girl," said Tiffany, getting to her feet. "We can get the sister."

"She's just as dangerous as Galavan," said Marcy. "But...better-looking though."

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," Tiffany muttered.

"Well, you just did," said Marcy, smirking. "That was a response."

"I meant a real response."

" _That_ **was** a real response."

Henry stood in front of Sylvia and Tiffany, who glanced at him curiously when he looked more mischievous than usual.

"If we get Tabitha," said Henry sneakily, "We can get Galavan. Galavan's got a weakness—all humans do!"

"What's yours?" Tiffany asked slyly.

"You, babe. You," said Henry, grinning broadly at her.

"Ugh, gag me," Marcy and Starbucks muttered.

"But really," said Henry who clearly enjoyed being in the spotlight. "We're trying to get Gertrude back with us, right? What we gotta do is find Galavan's weakness…"

"The guy right? Not the girl..." Marcy interjected, earning a glare from Henry. She raised her hands defensively: "Just wanted to be clear."

"What if he doesn't have a weakness?" Starbucks also interrupted, looking slightly upset. "He's got his 'T's crossed and his 'I's dotted—it's not like he hasn't thought of this plan, step-by-step."

" _So we'll have to be just as cunning_ ," Henry snapped, glaring at them. "Can't I complete a thought for like a _second_ before you all interrupt me?"

"How do we grab the sister?" questioned Josh. "It's not like she's going to walk in here alone..."

The doors opened a second time. This time, entering was Tabitha Galavan, in the flesh. She wore black leather jeans and a cut-off black top. In her hand, she carried an envelope. As she strutted inside, the heels of her boots struck the linoleum, heard even above the soothing tones of the violinists playing on stage. Sylvia eyed her dangerously as Tabitha approached her.

" **Wow** ," Tabitha breathed, looking around the club. "This place is really jumping, isn't it?"

"Well," said Henry, "You should have seen it earlier. It was 'jumping', like a fucking firecracker parade, but Queenie told them all to scram."

Tabitha chuckled, "Wow, ' _Queenie_ ', huh? You've really got _them_ trained, haven't you?"

"What do you want," Sylvia ordered, glowering at her.

Tabitha stepped forward, perhaps to get a little closer to her, but Henry, Josh, Marcy, Starbucks, and Tiffany all advanced to form a circle in front of Sylvia.

"Wow," Tabitha uttered even more sarcastically. "I stand corrected. You've _really_ got them trained."

"It's fine," Sylvia said to them.

Most of them disbanded behind her; however, Tiffany and Josh remained on the defense.

"I said 'it's _fine_ '," Sylvia repeated.

Josh looked at her reproachfully, but seeing Sylvia's softened expression, he retreated to her side. Tiffany glared angrily at Tabitha, who smirked at this sign of overprotectiveness.

"You're looking a lot better," Tabitha complimented callously. "I bet you've not taken a beating like that since you were with Drifas, huh, little kitty-cat?"

Tiffany glared at her, still. But her lip started to tremble.

"Lucky, Queenie was here to save you, huh?" Tabitha said knowingly. "Too bad it had to take a murder to get you out of that broken relationship. That's a crime shame."

Tiffany squeaked a sound of contempt but nothing more came out. One too many lashes, and Tiffany was hiding behind Sylvia, looking defeated. Henry patted her head, whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

"Tell me what you want, or get the fuck out of my club," Sylvia said darkly.

Tabitha sharply held out an envelope and Sylvia took it from her.

"You're going to kidnap someone. A man," said Tabitha smoothly. "His name is Bunderslaw—he's the garbage man, so to speak, for Wayne Enterprises. Anything bad that the Wayne Enterprises has done, he knows about it."

"I didn't ask what you needed him for," said Sylvia sardonically. "I could care less."

"Well, you should probably start caring a little more," said Tabitha coolly. "Because, you know….we have your sweet, little mother-in-law in our hands. No thanks to _her_ " (Tabitha gesticulated to Tiffany, who bowed her head in shame.) "So you might want to practice just a _little_ bit of candor."

"Or what?" Sylvia questioned, looking up at her. "You'll take one of my staff? You'll poison my food?" (She stood to her feet, and placed the envelope on the counter.) "Or maybe, you'll even try to take me as well, just to make this harder for Penguin."

"I wouldn't rule that out," said Tabitha.

"You're not taking me anywhere," Sylvia said. "And if you think you can take me, let's get it over with. You can try it now."

"And your pesky urchins will try to save you," said Tabitha humorously.

"Probably." Sylvia said, shrugging. "I wouldn't rule that out."

Tabitha seemed to consider it. She sized up the situation, but after a moment, she shrugged carelessly and said, "Nah. That'd be too easy."

"Anything else?" Sylvia asked. "Kidnapping Bunderslaw shouldn't be too hard."

"He has a lot of guards," Tabitha reminded.

"Even better," said Sylvia. "My people like a challenge."

Tabitha frowned. She watched Sylvia, like a hawk eying a competitive predator. What she saw was not weakness; instead, there was something more.

"You know," said Tabitha softly. "Before I go, I need to ask."

"Ask what?"

"What's your prior relationship between you and Barbara?" asked Tabitha coolly.

"We were friends," said Sylvia. She added nonchalantly, "I'm guessing we still are."

"Nothing else?"

Sylvia smirked: "Are we feeling a little jealous, Tabitha?"

"Not at all," she said. "I just wanted to know. See ya later, _Queenie_."

As she walked away, Marcy stepped forward and spat on the ground after her: "Bitch!"

Tiffany said quietly, "How does she know what happened with Burke? No one knows."

Sylvia looked at her pointedly saying, "Burke Drifas was a known man in the Underworld. He had ties to a lot of businesses. When he disappeared off the face of the earth, people noticed."

"You didn't tell the police anything, did you?" Tiffany asked.

"I didn't say a word," said Sylvia, crossing her heart with a finger. "But that doesn't mean the police didn't suspect something."

"I always wondered about that," Henry said curiously. "How is it that you were never arrested if people like the Galavans know it was murder."

Tiffany whispered, "His body was fished out of the Gotham Lake."

"'Beaten up and bloodied'," Marcy recollected. "Per the news, anyway."

Her eyes widened and she turned to Sylvia saying, "Wait, that was _you_?"

Sylvia shrugged admittedly, smiling a little when Marcy and Starbucks quickly hugged her. Sylvia's breath caught until they relinquished their grip and stepped back to admire their heroine.

"What the fuck?" Henry muttered.

"We used to work for that deadbeat bag of bones," said Marcy, disgusted. "You wanna know a bad excuse for a boss—ugh! The nerve of that meatbag. What a _dick_."

Tiffany stared at the two girls, saying, "You used to work for him?"

"We were his bag girls, I guess. Would you say that, Freda?"

"Sounds about right, Marcy," said Starbucks, shrugging. "Nothing sordid, like being a whore, but whenever he needed some escorts to show he had money and shit, he pretty much had us."

"Why did he use you two?" Tiffany questioned. "He had a fiancee back home."

Marcy said with total disregard, "He said his lady back home was a loser."

Tiffany scowled, crossing her arms.

"I'm so glad he's dead," Tiffany growled.

"Yeah, babe—you deserve better anyway," Henry said, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Soft-spoken, Josh said, "So how does Galavan know about the murder if no one said anything?"

Tiffany muttered, "GCPD has a lot of rats."

"Yeah," said Starbucks, "Maybe one of them talked."

"The police didn't have any hard evidence," Sylvia reminded.

"That's never stopped them," Tiffany responded. "They can plant evidence, and everything. I've seen it happen. Well, then again, that was back when Detective Flass had his hand in everything."

"And on every _one,_ " added Marcy, rolling her eyes. "What a fucking asshat."

"I thought he went to jail," said Starbucks.

"Nope. Judge freed him. Fucking **dick** ," Marcy said, stomping her foot.

"Flass was better than a few of the other cops," Starbucks said, patting Marcy on the back as though to calm down her counterpart. "If anything, Dougherty was worse."

"Who's Dougherty?" Henry questioned.

They all took a seat at the counter; opposite of one another to share a beer. Sylvia declined, still on her second martini. Henry poured a round.

"Dougherty was another dick cop," said Marcy, answering Henry. "Sweet on the outside—"

"Misogynist on the inside," Starbucks finished. "I've not seen him around though, now that I think about it."

"Why would you?" Marcy asked.

"Sometimes, he stops cars and asks the women out."

"He was going out with the bookie in GCPD," said Marcy pointedly. "He'd have no reason to ask out another broad."

"Would it shock you if I said the guy was a lousy boyfriend?" Starbucks responded, rolling her eyes. "Ain't no man like that gonna be in a committed relationship. I feel bad for the girl, then. What's her name again?"

"Kristen Kringle," Sylvia answered.

"She's that good-looking redhead, right?" asked Marcy.

Starbucks glanced at her saying, "You think _everyone_ is good-looking."

"Well, she was even _better_ looking." Marcy said defensively, shrugging a shoulder. "Smart _and_ sexy. Dougherty's got a nice thing going on, you know, if it weren't for the fact he's a cheating, misogynistic asshole."

"She's not dating him anymore," Sylvia said calmly.

"How do you know?" Marcy asked.

"She's dating Ed Nygma," said Sylvia.

" _Who_?" Marcy, Starbucks, and Tiffany responded simultaneously.

"Forensics guy," Sylvia said, sipping at her martini.

"I don't know him." Marcy muttered.

"I don't either," Starbucks replied.

Henry and Josh glanced at each other; Henry voiced pointedly, "You, women, talk an awful lot."

"Well," said Tiffany, "it's nice for someone else to do the talking."

Henry cleared his throat and took a longer-than-needed gulp from his beer. Josh declined the beer, pushing it away from him, and, instead, took out a bottle of soda from the refrigerator. He respectfully asked if Sylvia's right-hand side was taken and when she said 'no', he happily took that seat.

He looked more content than ever to sit next to her.

"Where's Dougherty now?" Marcy asked, glancing at anyone who would know the answer.

"Well," said Sylvia smoothly, "I don't know. I don't care. He's dead to me."

"Like dead-dead?" Marcy asked.

"No," said Henry. "She means like 'He's nothing to me'. _That_ kind of dead. Right, Liv? Am I right?"

Sylvia shrugged: "Sure. We can say that."

Henry chuckled with pride because, like any other time, he was able to decipher what Sylvia meant. Sylvia smirked to herself, though. Only she and Edward Nygma knew the real reason why no one had seen Officer Dougherty in a long while.

* * *

Sylvia held the envelope in hand, containing the picture of Bunderslaw as well as his most frequented locations. He was at home, most likely. Still, he had plenty of guards; she didn't want to chance the rest of her party ending up like Tiffany. While their enthusiasm was inspiring, none of them were prepared physically to deal with not just Bunderslaw, but his men included.

She visited the home of an old friend, knocking on the door.

"It's open!" Victor called out.

Sylvia opened it gingerly; she wore black leather pants and a red-tank top. She wore combat boots, and while they were charming and dangerous in appearance, they didn't make a single noise as she strode through the house, noticing that for a professional hitman with exquisite tastes, Victor Zsasz didn't really keep much in the house.

In this respect, Sylvia liked him more for his non-materialistic way of living.

"Victor?" Sylvia called.

"Kitchen."

Sylvia chuckled, "Why am I not surprised..." She stopped in the door way, seeing Victor sitting on the counter, eating a ham salad sandwich.

What stopped Sylvia in her tracks was his current appearance. All the times she had spent with him, she'd never seen Victor wear anything more than his all-black suit, including a vest that carried two of his dangerous babies. In this moment, Sylvia saw that he was half-naked, wearing black pajama bottoms, and nothing else. His bare feet swayed carelessly; and his upper half was lean and muscular.

It wasn't often that he was shot in the line of duty, but after having gone after Randall Hobbs and having been interrupted by the GCPD, Victor had come out alive, but with a bullet wound. The wound in his shoulder caught her attention and she noticed that it had not been cared for at all. Whether that was due to Victor's carelessness or perhaps he'd never been shot often to be knowledgeable in aftercare, Sylvia wasn't sure, but she noticed it regardless.

"Come in," said Victor, gesturing her forward. "You know it's rude to stand in doorways."

Sylvia smiled at him.

"You look well," said Sylvia, gesturing to him.

"I've been better." Victor returned, looking her up and down. " _You_ look good though."

"Mm. I've _felt_ better."

Victor didn't grin, but the corners of his jaw twitched upwards. He finished eating his sandwich and then hopped off the counter.

"You're shot," said Sylvia, looking at his shoulder.

"You can see. Congratulations," said Victor stoically.

"Sit." Sylvia said, gesturing to the table.

"It's a flesh wound."

"It's infected."

"Again, congratulations."

"Shut up, Victor, and sit _down_ ," said Sylvia coolly. "Have you even _tried_ to clean it?"

"Nope," said Victor. "There's a pint of ice cream in the freezer. Care to get it for me since you _insist_ that I remain seated."

Sylvia scoffed, retracting a small smile. She opened the freezer and pulled out the ice cream, and placed a spoon in front of him. He thanked her wordlessly before opening the top and digging the steel utensil into the otherwise rock-hard dairy treat.

"Where's your first-aid kit?"

"Bathroom."

"Any particular place you put it?" Sylvia questioned.

"Cabinet," Victor responded with a mouth full of ice cream.

Sylvia walked through the house. She noticed he didn't care for much lighting; aside from the few motion sensor night-lights that came to life as she passed them, there were not many bulbs in place. As she walked through the corridor, she felt with her hands along the walls, successfully finding the bathroom door. Opening it inwardly, she noticed first-hand that the sink and toilet were cleaned to pristine.

A professional hitman who prided himself on cleanliness...and yet did not think to clean his own bullet wound.

Sylvia opened the cabinet, took the unopened, unused First Aid kit. It was a small traveler-sized box with all the necessities inside, including gauze, band-aids (both large and small),; packaged towelettes with rubbing alcohol; a small bottle of antibacterial ointment; tweezers, nail clippers, and—if one required more extensive care—lining and a needle for sewing. As she strode through the hall back to the kitchen, she heard Victor's noise of content as he ate the ice cream.

"Randall Hobbs is still alive," said Sylvia conversationally as she walked into the kitchen.

"For now," said Victor, looking at her.

"I'm surprised those young police officers got the best of you."

Victor's expression hardened.

Sylvia said pointedly, "I expected more out of a hitman like yourself."

"Trust me; it surprised me more than you." Victor said coolly. "Why are you here?"

"Well, first things first. I wanted to make sure you were okay." Sylvia said lightly. "We're work-married after all, and I can't imagine what I would do if my work hubby was shot in the line of duty...and died from a fucking bacterial infection. After all the crap you've gone through, I wouldn't expect you to die from something as small as this—look at this, you didn't even _wash_ it."

"Didn't hurt that bad," said Victor stubbornly.

"Do you have a brighter source of light?" Sylvia asked.

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to fix you up."

"There's a switch beside the door." Victor answered defiantly. "But I can assure you, I'm fine."

"I don't care if you told me you're feeling ten out of ten," said Sylvia sternly. "You need to get this fixed. And since I know you won't go to the doctor—" ("You've got that right.") — "You will have to settle for me."

"I wouldn't call it 'settling'," said Victor slyly.

"Stop flirting with me." Sylvia responded, although she allowed a small smile to tweak the corner of her mouth.

She turned on the light next to the door. Both she and Victor winced at the light as though they had been burrowed from the sun for eons. Their eyes adjusted after a minute, and Sylvia went to work.

"What's your plan regarding Randall Hobbs?"

"I'll get him," said Victor. "Don't you worry."

"I'm not worried."

"You _sound_ worried."

"Well, I'm not."

"You're worried about _something_."

Sylvia scoffed, "Well, aren't we all..." She ripped open a towelette soaked in rubbing alcohol. "If I wasn't worried, I wouldn't be human."

"You and Penguin have me going after a mayoral candidate," said Victor. "And you make a personal visit to me for this next job you have in mind. What _is_ it?"

"What is what?"

"What's bothering you?"

"Nothing is bothering me."

"Is it regarding the thing you can't tell me about?" Victor asked knowingly. He didn't even wince when the towelette rubbed over his wound; he seemed unaffected by it in general.

"No."

"You're lying to me."

"I'm not lying."

"You're lying again."

Sylvia gave him a look, saying, "Would it suffice to say that I have had better days?"

"I've known you for a while now, Liv," said Victor. "Whatever this thing is that has you worried, it's something big. I know it. Your whole party at the club knows it."

"They know what's happening..."

"Oh, so they get to know but _I'm_ the one being left in the dark?" Victor questioned.

Sylvia said softly, "You're a neutral party, Victor. What if I tell you what's happening, and then Galavan decides to hire you for your services. And he just so happens to ask you what you know about what's happening? Then I'm in the doghouse, for sure..."

Victor took her hand and removed it from his person, looking at her seriously.

"I wouldn't work for that pipsqueak," said Victor coolly.

Sylvia smiled saying, "I know."

"So, tell me what this is about."

"Victor."

"I'm shot, okay? It's the least you can do." Victor returned calmly.

Sylvia surrendered.

"He has my mother-in-law," she confided. "Galavan has my mother-in-law and I don't where. He's using her to make Oswald and I do this stuff for him. Caulfield, Hobbs—soon to be Bunderslaw..."

"Who's Bunderslaw?"

"Someone who is connected to the Wayne Enterprises..."

"Do you need help getting this guy?"

Sylvia let out a breathy laugh saying, "Why do you think I came to you?"

Victor said disdainfully, "Why don't we go after Galavan?"

"We can't. He has Gertrude."

"Find out where she is—"

"You don't think we've not tried?" Sylvia questioned harshly, dropping the items in her hand. "The closer we get, the worse _he_ gets. And Gertrude wouldn't even be in this fucking situation if _I_ had been the one to go to her. Instead, _like an idiot_ , I sent Tiffany."

Victor quirked an eyebrow saying, "She's the woman you saved from that two-timing businessman, right? The one you had dumped in the lake?"

"The same," Sylvia groaned, rubbing her forehead. She sat beside Victor, saying, "It's a fucking mess. I'm trying to keep it together, but I'm slowly losing my fucking mind. Him and that fucking _sister_ of his."

"Have you told any of this to Penguin?"

"Told him what?"

Victor gestured to her general mood: "You blame Rubberdale for this mess. Why don't you do something about it?"

"It's not her," said Sylvia tiredly. "It's not her fault—she didn't know they'd come after Gertrude. She can't even fend off a fucking fish if it meant her life."

"If it was her life at stake, maybe she'd have been able to," said Victor, putting the spoon back in the bowl for another taste.

Sylvia looked at him.

"What do you mean?"

"It's amazing how different these people will react when they find out their lives are in danger. And even more amusing when they realize that it's not _their_ lives that are on the line." Victor reminded. "Remember all those trips we used to take, Liv?"

"What are you getting at?"

Victor leaned back in his chair.

"If Rubberdale saw that Gertia—"

"—Gertrude—"

"Was in trouble," Victor continued, "She wouldn't have reacted at all because she's thinking about her own personal safety. But if it had been her own life at stake, Rubberdale might have fought harder."

Sylvia frowned saying, "You're telling me that Tiffany didn't do what she could to protect Gertrude because it wasn't _her_ that Galavan wanted?"

Victor winked at her.

"That's unthinkable," Sylvia said darkly.

"But it's a possibility," said Victor. "Let me ask you this. Does Tiffany keep asking for your forgiveness?"

"Yes."

"Even though you've told her _multiple_ times to let it go?"

"Yes."

Victor said slyly, "That certainly sheds some light on a few things, doesn't it, Liv?"

"She's a faithful servant, Victor."

"And she's human," he said pointedly. "Not a lot of people are willing to die for other people—this is Gotham."

"Are you?" Sylvia asked quietly.

"Am I what?"

"Would you be willing to die for another person?"

"If it suits me," said Victor smoothly.

"Even if it was me?"

"I walked you down that carpet, gave you away on your wedding day. I like you, Liv. Love you even, as a friend. But there's not a single soul in this world I would die for." Victor said coolly.

"Well, at least you're honest," said Sylvia lightly.

She placed the ointment on his wound and Victor smirked at her.

"You're still going to bother with this thing?" Victor asked incredulously, glancing at her fingers as she taped a rectangle of gauze over his shoulder.

"Well, you may not die for me," said Sylvia sweetly, "But you're willing to take a bullet to get things done and I say that's a lot more than what most people in Gotham would do."

"You're not bad for a woman, work-wife."

"You're not much of an asshole either, work-hubby." Sylvia said smoothly. "Are you going to eat that entire thing of ice cream?"

"What if I do?"

"Just saying, that's a lot of calories."

"What a typical wife," muttered Victor. "So what are we doing about Bunderslaw? What's the plan?"

"Get him, get out."

"That's a basic plan."

"Got a better one?"

"I said it was 'basic'. I didn't say I didn't like it," said Victor, smirking at her. "Guy like him may have one or two guards."

"If they're anything like what Loeb had in his house, I think it's fair to say we will be fine."

"He might have a few guns lying around," said Victor. "A man like him has some interesting tastes."

"I give you permission to take whatever you want from this house of his. After Galavan does whatever he wants with him, I doubt he'll be coming home anyway." Sylvia stated. She clapped him on the other shoulder, and chirped, "Like a brand new penny!"

"Thanks, Liv."

"You're welcome." Sylvia said. "Did you want me to come along for this one, or—"

"Nope," said Victor, getting to his feet. "This will be an in-and-out job. If you come with me, it'll be about twenty minutes when really, it should only take five."

"That's a bit sexist."

"Well, am I wrong?" Victor questioned.

"No." Sylvia said. "You're not. But still….If you need back-up, you know where to find me. This not-killing-anyone thing is really starting to frazzle me."

Victor, who stood a great foot taller than she, graced his hand behind her head and kissed her forehead. She looked up at him curiously and he smiled back at her. And that was all the more that needed to be said.


	24. Motherly Advice

Chapter 24: Motherly Advice

* * *

Going back to the Falcone Mansion after Victor had successfully killed Randall Hobbs on his way back from kidnapping Bunderslaw, Sylvia walked into the living room of the mansion. She was tired, but content. Worrying about Gertrud was exhausting in nature, but learning that everything had been taken care of (at least on _their_ end) was something of a small victory. It wasn't until she'd come fully into the living room that she saw that a man was lying on the couch, beaten and bloodied.

Sympathy pulled at her heart strings. It was Stanley. At least, she _thought_ it was him. He was covered in so much blood, it was hard to tell.

People who worked for Penguin 'technically' worked for Sylvia, and vice versa. Distinguishing which characters were loyal to either entity wasn't really the issue; however, those who directly associated themselves under Penguin's rule always seemed to end up on the bloodier end of a one-sided conversation. And Stanley, unfortunately, had become the recipient of such a raw debate.

Stanley was like any other guard to the Mansion. He was no more or less like Dagger or Chilly. But technically speaking, Stanley worked for Penguin. It was by general liking of Penguin's wife that Stanley didn't commit himself to a one-man boss. Sylvia was just as much a leader to him and Penguin's employees as she was to her own.

Whatever the loyalty, seeing Sylvia approach him, Stanley was quick to flinch away from her as she reached out to him.

"Shh-shh," Sylvia cooed. "It's fine. Look..."

He slightly relaxed at the sight of her holding a wet wash cloth, noticing that she wasn't there to dish out a second heap of punishment for being the messenger.

Josh was, once again, at her heels, awaiting any further commands. Sylvia turned to him.

"Josh, honey," she said softly, "Would you go to the bathroom, and get my First Aid kit. I'll need bandages, and _lots_ of them."

"Yes, Ma'am," said Josh, bowing his head and smiling furtively. He left her side for a moment.

"What are you going to do?" Stanley asked nervously.

Sylvia ignored his question. Her fingertips ghosted over the deep gashes on his face, and those leading up to his bald head, wounds caused by a blunt object. All the meanwhile, Stanley hesitated to move away from her...slightly perturbed that she was being gentle with him at all!

She looked him over, asking, "What did Penguin hit you with?"

"Stoker for the fireplace" muttered Stanley grumpily.

Crowbars or stokers, for that matter, weren't exactly Oswald's go-to, but when he was pissed off, his tendency to grab whatever was within reach wasn't unheard of. Sylvia gestured for Stanley to move his feet onto the couch to make room for herself and he did as he was silently ordered. He wasn't entirely relaxed, though, especially as Sylvia sat on the edge of the couch.

"I guess you drew the short straw, huh?" Sylvia assumed, a small smirk creeping to the corner of her mouth.

He sneered, "What do you think?"

"There's a reason why no one wants to be the messenger," she said knowingly. "You're lucky he didn't have a gun within reach."

Stanley mindfully kept his body from hers. The last thing he needed was for the Penguin to enter the room and see any body part of his touching anything of hers.

It was common knowledge for the men to know just how much Sylvia meant to Penguin (after all, she was his wife). And it wasn't only their marriage that made it clear. With Gertrud locked away in some distant, hidden prison, Sylvia was all that Oswald had right now. And he kept eyes on her all the time.

"What are you _doing_?" Stanley stammered, unnerved, as he watched Sylvia place her hand on his chest. "What..."

"Hush." Sylvia ordered.

"But if he sees you—"

"You're not going to be seeing a doctor anytime soon, _are_ you?" Sylvia questioned.

"No..."

"Then you might as well shush it and let me help you. At the rate you all are getting injured, you'll die from infection long before you actually are due to expire. Now shut up." Sylvia said.

Stanley sensed that this was not the first time Sylvia had to fix someone today. However, it was perplexing that a woman like her knew how to sew a wound together, or anything to do with first aid. Then again, growing up with Detective Jim Gordon for an older brother, it seemed to be a given that she'd learn some basics.

Like a good servant, Josh was back with plenty of bandages, and a bottle of peroxide.

"I couldn't find the alcohol," said Josh apologetically.

"Peroxide is fine," Sylvia said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Ma'am," said Josh, smiling proudly as he absorbed the praise. "Do you need anything else? Or..."

"Tea would be nice," Sylvia offered.

"I'll get that for you," said Josh eagerly. "Anything in it?"

"Sugar." Sylvia answered, opening the bottle of peroxide and she placed a great deal of it in the wash cloth.

Stanley watched the interaction between them; Josh quickly left to the kitchen to make tea. Stanley eyed him then glanced at Sylvia with the same curiosity.

"I can see the wheels turning in your head, Stanley," said Sylvia, drawing her eyes from him to the wash cloth, wringing it out in a bowl provided on the table. "What is it that you want to say?"

"Guess you've got your own Umbrella Boy, huh?" Stanley asked boldly.

Nonchalantly, Sylvia responded, "What makes you think that?"

"Well, you know. I remember when Penguin used to be Fish's umbrella boy. Always by her side, offering to do stuff for her, always happy when he could do something _for_ her...you know, now that I think about it, you kinda remind me of Fish— _ow! Damn it!_ "

Sylvia smirked when he hissed at her, breaking his focus as the peroxide stung his face as though she'd thrown acid on him.

"Stop being such a baby," Sylvia said lightly. "You're making something out of nothing."

"You try getting hit with a fucking blunt object and see how much of a man you are," he grumbled.

Unaffected, she asked, "What did you say to him?"

"I didn't say much," said Stanley innocently, shifting in his position so his back leaned in the corner where the arm of the couch met the back.

"You had to say _something_ ," Sylvia pointed out, her eyes flickering to the blood slowly oozing down his neck.

Stanley stiffened his upper lip, saying, "I told him what happened: the Count House was raided. The fucking pigs took everything—AH!"

Sylvia had poured a great deal of peroxide into a deep cut on his shoulder. He cringed, looking at her hatefully.

"My _brother's_ a cop," Sylvia reminded, sternly raising an eyebrow. "Mind your manners."

"Sorry, sorry—I forgot—you just don't look the type..." Stanley said quickly.

When her stern expression deepened, he was quick to change the subject.

He continued, "The cops took everything. The money, the merchandise...I'll be surprised if they don't raid the Merc next. Their new captain had more balls than their last one did..."

"Their last Captain had a bunch of Arkham inmates running around, destroying Gotham. Compared to that type of anarchy, this new Captain of theirs isn't experienced in the ways of this city, not like _she_ was."

"Yeah, the fucking bitch was—"

Without hesitation, Sylvia dipped her hand into the bowl of peroxide, splashing it into his face, getting into his eyes ("AH! GOD **DAMN** IT") He grasped at his eyeballs, trying to wipe as much from them as possible, rubbing them red.

"Don't you speak ill of the dead," Sylvia scolded. "Captain Essen was a friend."

"Goddamnit, woman. I thought you said you weren't going to hurt me," Stanley seethed.

"I never said that," said Sylvia. "Mind your fucking manners and we'll get along nicely. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," Stanley submitted.

"The Count House was raided…?" Sylvia said, encouraging him to continue.

He looked at her doubtfully, reluctant to say anymore lest she become offended again. Like her husband, she seemed to have an affinity for an impulsive temper tantrum. The only difference, however, was her soft, gentle side. Her motherly tendencies.

Sylvia gestured for him to sit up; he did so, and he winced as she helped him out of his shirt and suit jacket, revealing his upper body to her. He blushed red, having himself exposed to her like this but Sylvia was indifferent—having almost no reaction.

"Cops took everything," Stanley repeated. "I told Penguin, but he just lost it!"

"Well, he's dealing with a lot at the moment."

"You're defending him?"

"Not entirely," said Sylvia calmly. "But you have to appreciate the kind of stress he's under."

"You're under the same type of stress, and _you're_ not hitting me with anything," Stanley pointed out.

Sylvia smiled saying, "Well, one of us has to have a clear head during these times."

Stanley stared at her saying, "Has anyone told you how lucky Penguin is to have a girl like you?"

"Several people," said Sylvia. "But that's not the point, is it?"

"You're right." Stanley said. "This captain of theirs is going to be troublesome. I can tell. He doesn't care who he crosses..."

"For Gotham, that's a _good_ thing."

"You _want_ the pig—I mean...the captain—to win?"

Sylvia rubbed his face of the blood, and placed ointment on the wounds before placing a gauze bandage over them. She did the same thing with the beaten lashes on his chest and back. For a moment, she was silent as though she was searching for the right words to explain herself.

"Gotham _sucks_ ," said Sylvia plainly (Stanley chuckled.) "But as much as it sucks ass, I love the city despite its flaws and its sewers. This city has been poisoned for a long time, and people have only started noticing because it's people like Jerome Valeska that bring its poison to the surface for everyone else to see.

"The captain is an abrasive man, sure, but on the whole, he's looking out for number one...and that's Gotham's people. If people were more like him, we wouldn't have the chaos on the streets or the homeless people in the Narrows."

Stanley sniggered, "If it wasn't for the poison in the streets, you and Penguin wouldn't be the King and Queen of _anything_. Not of Gotham, not in Falcone's mansion. It's people like Penguin that make this city look like a wreck."

"And it's the guards like **you** that make us look _weak_ ," said Sylvia curtly.

Stanley raised an eyebrow, certain he'd hit a hot button when he disrespected Penguin. But he chanced a good debate, saying, "I'm not weak."

"You got your ass handed to you by a man who is two feet shorter than you and has a limp," said Sylvia.

"He hit me with a blunt object."

"You have a _gun,_ haven't you?"

Stanley opened his mouth to make a point, only to realize that he was defeated in this situation. Sylvia smirked at him.

"Anyway, the raiding of the Count House _does_ propose a problem," said Sylvia lightly. "We're losing a lot of money."

"Perhaps it was one of _your_ people that drew the short straw," said Stanley. "Maybe they sold you out, put the screws to your empire...told the police where to go and how to raid it."

" _My_ people are loyal."

"That's what everyone says about their people."

"Mmm. Well, for the moment, I'm not worried."

She rubbed her hands together and smiled at her handiwork: "All good to go. Now, if I were you. I'd refrain from delivering any bad news."

"How am I supposed to do that exactly?"

Sylvia said smoothly, "Any bad news you have, send my way. Let me know first. I may not be able to turn the bad news into good, but I can at least soften the blow and ensure none of you get your asses handed to you by Penguin."

"I don't think he'll like that."

"If you don't agree with that plan," said Sylvia slyly, "then you're more than welcome to inform Penguin about the two other businesses that were busted this morning, _along_ with the Count House. I'm sure he'd love to hear that."

He gulped.

"Didn't think so," said Sylvia, crossing her arms. "Personally, I don't care to be the bad guy, if it means you all can still be gainfully employed. With that new fucking Captain prowling around with his puffed out chest, he's starting to scare a few people, people in the Narrows, even. It'd only make things more difficult hiring more handymen."

Stanley blinked, looking at her incredulously.

"Do you _really_ care about us—any of us—that much?" Stanley questioned. "What if Penguin doesn't like what you have to say? What if he comes at _you_ with a stoker?"

"You do _you_ , Stanley. And you let _me_ deal with Penguin." Sylvia reassured. "Let the others know—before you tell Penguin anything, you tell me first. Got it?"

"Sure." Stanley said, nodding.

"Now, I'll give you some motherly advice: if I were you, I'd lie down, get some rest. No breaking down doors or anything else like that for a few days."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Sylvia smiled when Josh arrived with the tea. He held three cups on a platter, offering it to her. Sylvia thanked him, handing one cup to Stanley who accepted it gratefully while Sylvia tilted her head to the side, wordlessly instructing for Josh to follow her. He did so, tailing her heels.


	25. Safehouses

Chapter Twenty-Five: Safehouses

Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews, lovelies! :P

* * *

Josh sat in the passenger seat as Sylvia drove out of Gotham. He was silent for the most part, as was his overall personality. He didn't talk much, and he kept glancing between Sylvia and the windshield. They were heading towards a business, a contracting business of all places. Sylvia hadn't said much of anything to explain why they were going and it didn't seem to be in Josh's interest to ask.

That was until they pulled into a parking lot where an elderly man with gray hair and thick bushy black eyebrows stood just off to the side. Surrounding the area were oil factories and cheap, dime-a-dozen warehouses that focused primarily on cutting wood or making toys. It was a shady part outside of Gotham, just outside of the GCPD's jurisdiction.

"What are we doing?" Josh asked.

"You'll find out."

"I don't have to kill him, do I?" asked Josh fearfully, glancing at the large, stocky man.

"That's sweet," Sylvia cooed. "But no. We're not going to kill him. It's primarily just business."

"Business for what?"

Sylvia said nothing, getting out of the car; Josh quickly followed.

Thanks to her, his appearance had changed over the last couple of weeks. Instead of his homeless clothes he'd acquired after living in the Narrows for most of his life, she'd gotten him a brown jacket which he wore over a white, collared long-sleeve shirt. He wore brown slacks, and was thankful for these were the first pair of pants that didn't have holes in them...or had previously belonged to a dead man. His shoes were a bit of a tight fit for his abnormally large feet, but aside from that, he was comfortable.

He brushed his messy hair back in attempt to look more pristine, comparatively untidy when he stood beside Sylvia who wore a knee-high, black business skirt with a white, long-sleeve shirt; the sleeves were rolled up above her elbows. She looked like a lawyer, especially with her skin-matching hose and black, glossed five-inch heels.

"Good morning," Sylvia greeted the stranger.

The businessman, as he appeared to be, raised both of his eyebrows when he saw who he was meeting. Apparently, this had all been built in secrecy from the ground-up, including the identity of his potential client.

"Mrs. Cobblepot."

He spoke with such a deep voice that the bass could be felt rumbling in Sylvia's chest.

"I didn't realize," he said slowly, "That I was meeting you. I thought I was meeting...well...someone else."

"Yes," said Sylvia, nodding.

"You're not Diana….?"

"That's my middle name," said Sylvia. "And I'm sorry to have led you here under false pretenses, but you can understand the reason for it, I'm sure. A man of your profession..."

Josh leaned forward and whispered, " _What_ is his profession?"

"My boy, I build." He said proudly. "These warehouses...they're of my construction. I not only designed them from the ground up, but I also contracted them, the money, the blueprints, the wiring—all me. What's more, is that I did it in secrecy."

"Not much of a secret," Josh mumbled. "They're standing. They're here, in the open...public."

Sylvia said gently to him, "The buildings are, yes, but the people who contracted these buildings to be built are not public. Their identities are hidden, secret."

Josh eyed the businessman suspiciously, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other.

"Josh," said Sylvia. "This is Mr. Vanderhill. He's a man who gets things done."

"And a man who needs to know just exactly _why_ you, above all people, need to build a house," said Vanderhill. "You're living in the Falcone Mansion—that has all the safety you'd ever need."

"Safety?" Josh said curiously.

"I'm not asking for a _house._ I need a _safe_ house," said Sylvia. "I should remind you of the plans I had a year ago…."

"Ah, yes. The safehouse. If you want something just as grand as that mansion you live in, then I will need a lot more money than I was asking for..."

"No," said Sylvia. "I need something small. Something that can be hidden in the woods."

"Why the woods?"

"Would _you_ go searching for me in the woods?" Sylvia asked smartly.

"Darling, I would go searching for you anywhere." Vanderhill said coyly. "A woman like you doesn't disappear off the face of the earth without several people noticing. Just what exactly do you fear will come after you and put your life at risk? After all, you're Mrs. Cobblepot, the Penguin's wife—surely, you don't have any enemies."

"You have an odd sense of humor," said Sylvia.

"Well, with a position of yours, your people can turn on you at any given moment," said Vanderhill, shrugging. "A man has to know how you deal with that on a daily basis. Your life is on the line, twenty-four seven, and you seem to get along just fine."

"I grew up with a lawyer for a father and I have a detective for a brother," said Sylvia dully. "My life being on the line has since become a regular, every-day event. Now, will you be contracting this for me or will I need to find someone else?"

"No, no, no," said Vanderhill quickly, smiling with all his white teeth showing. "I'll be more than willing to accommodate. But, may I ask, why did we have to meet here outside of Gotham? Surely, all of this could have been done over the phone."

"I can't trust some people in Gotham," said Sylvia coolly. "And the walls have ears."

"I'm also a man who can keep quiet about this business, if the lady is willing."

Josh frowned saying, "You're not going to touch her." He came forward like a rabid dog, teeth bearing, and eyes blazing, standing protectively in front of Sylvia.

Vanderhill put his hands up quickly: "Whoa, boy, now I didn't mean anything like that! I was talking about money!"

Sylvia tapped Josh on the shoulder and he backed off. Vanderhill put a hand on his forehead, wiping away that sweat that had settled uncomfortably on it. Sylvia handed him an envelope and Vanderhill tested the weight, obviously content with his findings as he pocketed it with a shit-eating grin.

"Your business is safe with me, milady," said Vanderhill. "And I'm certain we won't be meeting for anything else."

"If it all goes to plan," said Sylvia, "you can be rest-assured we won't."

"Do you want anything in particular as far as the exterior goes?"

"Make it inconspicuous, something a person wouldn't look twice at," said Sylvia.

"A trailer, perhaps?"

"That'll work."

"I have just the right look," said Vanderhill. "Should we shake on it?"

Sylvia held out her hand. Vanderhill shook it.

"You have soft hands." Vanderhill noted, smiling at her.

Sylvia didn't respond to that. But Josh gave him a sour look before retreating to the car upon Sylvia's instructions so that they drove back to Gotham.

"I have to wonder...why did you bring me along?" Josh asked, watching Vanderhill wave at the car through the side mirror, glancing at Sylvia only after the man's reflection had long disappeared.

"I figured you'd want to come," said Sylvia. "You like being with me, _don't_ you, Josh?"

"I enjoy your company, yeah."

"What do you think of Vanderhill? Do you think he'll keep his part of the contract?"

"You want _my_ opinion?"

"Of course. That's why I'm asking."

Josh spoke softly, "I think he's a sleazy, devil-twisted rat with a lot of sin on his shoulders, but I think, for you, he'll keep his word."

Sylvia smirked at him: "You know, I was thinking the exact same thing."

"Does Mr. Penguin know about this thing?" asked Josh, glancing behind them in reference to Vanderhill and the secret plan of building a safehouse.

"No."

"Shouldn't he?"

Sylvia smiled at him, saying, "In time."

"So this is where you've been going every morning for the past week?" Josh asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"How do you know what I do every morning?"

"You normally train with Mr. Bell."

It was Sylvia's turn to quirk an eyebrow at him.

Amused, she said, "Joshua, have you been spying on me?"

"I wouldn't call it that."

"What would you call it, then?"

"Observing," Josh commented, smiling sheepishly. "I like watching you fight Mr. Bell. You're pretty quick for an...well..."

Sylvia chuckled, "An 'old' woman?"

"Well..."

"To you, I may be old," said Sylvia, shrugging. "You're a kid. I'm thirty."

"I'm just saying—you move a lot faster than most people," said Josh quietly, his face turning red. "But lately...you haven't been with Mr. Bell. You've been somewhere else. And you don't tell people where you go—I'll be honest, Miss Sylvia. It makes people wonder. But...really, you've been out trying to build safehouses."

"This is the most I've heard you talk," Sylvia said, grinning broadly. "But you're avoiding the question."

Josh said bravely, "Why not tell Mr. Penguin you've been building a safehouse?"

"I don't want to worry him."

"How would that worry him?"

Sylvia smiled gently at him saying, "When you have a spouse and a family of your own, Joshua, you will understand."

"I want to understand now."

Sylvia considered her words for a moment. Then, patiently, she said, "He's protecting me to the best of his ability. But ultimately, I'm trying to protect not just him, but _us._ If I tell him about the safehouse, he'll assume that I doubt his ability to protect me. With things becoming more complicated, it is best if I just keep him safe without him knowing."

"So you've been sneaking out of the mansion for the past week so you can protect the Boss without him knowing you're protecting him?" Josh said. "That's kind of cute."

Sylvia side-glanced him, seeing him grin toothily at her. She rolled her eyes, completely unabashed by the comment.

A beat passed as Sylvia considered something, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She signaled for a right turn, asking, "Do you want to go with me to see my brother?"

"Do you _want_ me to go?"

Sylvia gave him a look and Josh said quickly, "I'd like to come, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind if you come."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

A few minutes of silence passed, during which time Sylvia watched the road while Josh glanced out the window. The cars passed them, one by one. A warm feeling filled his heart.

"Thank you," said Josh quietly.

"You said that already."

"No...I mean, yeah, but not for the same reason."

"What do you mean?"

Josh folded his hands nervously together, and said quietly, "You make me feel special, and I've never been happier. You take me places where no one else bothers to, and you ask me stuff that most people don't ask me."

Sylvia side-glanced at him, saying nothing at first.

"I know I haven't known you as long as the others," he mumbled. "But I love you."

Sylvia looked at him, eyes wide.

"Not like that!" Josh said quickly, holding his hands out in front of him. "Nothing like that! I just mean, you know…I like you in a way that a friend could possibly love another, in a way a son loves a mother….that's all I meant."

She smiled a little.

"You know I'm not your mother, right?" Sylvia said gently.

"Yeah, but you're the closest thing to one that I will ever have."

"That's sweet," Sylvia said, patting his shoulder. "You're alright, kid."

* * *

Sylvia visited the GCPD. She had no intention of discussing the raid that had taken place; in fact, her visit circled around seeing her brother. Since his impromptu visit to the mansion and interrogation of Oswald, his presence had become scarce. Perhaps it was because Jim knew he wouldn't get anything out of Sylvia regarding the reason behind Oswald's attempt to sabotage the election, or maybe he didn't want to anger Sylvia any further.

Either way, Sylvia was missing her brother. And that was all the reason to go visiting him.

Sylvia offered Josh to come in with her. He happily accepted, feeling a sense of accomplishment that the Boss wanted and liked having him around. In a way, he knew Sylvia could protect herself, handle herself in any case she was attacked; after all, he'd seen her train with Mr. Bell in the backyard.

But despite the aggressive, cool, calm, collected and somewhat abrasive front Sylvia projected to the enemy, there was a vulnerability inside of her...a soft spot for her employees as well as Penguin's own men. It was a side that a lot of them were able to see. She was a mother hen to them, no matter what. And that was something all of Penguin and Sylvia's men (and women) loved about her. It almost made Penguin's temper somewhat tolerable.

And it was this vulnerability that provoked this protective urge inside of Josh. He followed her, not just as a companion but in any case there might be someone amongst the cops that would try to hurt her.

As Josh followed Sylvia inside, her presence was immediately noticed by the Desk Sergeant, who happily greeted her. He was the same sergeant as before, and he didn't look any different...probably a little fatter, but then again, it was Pizza Day.

Josh followed her closely at her heels, only a few inches between them. He remained quiet, more observant of his surroundings than what was permissible. He claimed pride for his observational skills, and it was this that made him worth something. His overall appearance—his bulbous nose, and abnormally large hands and feet—made him appear harmless. And he preferred to be seen that way.

"Looking for Jim?" asked the Desk Sergeant.

Sylvia smirked: "You know me too well."

"Well," he chuckled, "Why else do you come in here?"

"To make small talk with you."

"Now, you're just being charming." The Desk Sergeant chortled, shaking his head. He pointed up at the balcony where Jim usually worked.

"Thank you." Sylvia said, nodding to him. To Josh, she cooed, "Come along, Joshua."

Sylvia sat on the edge of Jim's desk, looking at the papers dully. Josh glanced at her curiously as she placed the papers on their front, giving Jim his due privacy. He was a cop and he delved into a great deal of sensitive cases; they weren't for her eyes to see.

"How do you do it?" Josh asked quietly.

"Do what?"

"Be a cop's sister?" Josh said, gesturing to the GCPD station in general. " _And_ be Penguin's wife...how do you do it?"

"I take it one step at a time," said Sylvia.

"You don't feel like you're betraying Penguin when you come here?" Josh asked.

"Why would I?"

"Well...like...I mean, you don't feel like you're betraying Detective Gordon when you're doing stuff for Penguin? How do you keep it all separate?"

Sylvia smiled, saying, "Your relationships don't define you, just as my relationships with my brother and my husband don't define _me_. My brother doesn't like it that I'm with Penguin."

"And Penguin doesn't like you being with your brother?"

"He doesn't," said Sylvia, "but he won't say it."

"If you know they don't like you being with either, why are you?" Josh asked quietly. "Er….why do they not try to keep you from either?"

"Jim knows he can't stop me from being with Penguin. And Penguin understands the value of family; otherwise, if he didn't value his family, we wouldn't be doing everything Galavan wants because he wouldn't have any leverage on us."

"How long did it take for you to get there?" Josh asked.

"Get where?"

"To knowing all this stuff?" said Josh. "You've must've had a lot of fights."

"More than I care to admit," Sylvia confessed. "But I think we're getting there."

Jim and Lee Thompkins were walking up the stairs. She heard Lee's voice: "Strike Force...I don't like that name."

"I'm not crazy about it either," said Jim, "But he gets things done. He can call it whatever he wants."

"Sylvia!" Lee gasped, smiling widely.

Jim gave Lee a surprised look, taken back by the exclamation but when he lifted his eyes to see Sylvia sitting on his desk, Jim smiled too.

"What a surprise," Jim said, looking at her. He glanced at Josh. "Who are you?"

"This is Josh," said Sylvia, gesturing to him. "He's a friend."

Jim looked at him then to Sylvia saying, "Is he one of Penguin's men?"

"No. One of mine." Sylvia answered. "And, for your information, I didn't come to talk about him."

Lee said optimistically, "I was just wondering about you." (She hugged Sylvia.) "My goodness, how have you been?"

"Well, you're certainly happy to see me," Sylvia noted, smirking.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Lee asked.

"You were calling me 'crazy' because I left you on that spinning wheel back at the Children's Gala," Sylvia recalled. "You know….after I saved your life and everything."

"Well," said Lee lightly, "I think we can all agree that we were all a bit scared. And I never officially thanked you. It could have gone a lot worse if you hadn't been there."

Josh said quietly, "I was kind of worried about that too."

"I know, right?" Lee said, smiling beautifully. "Well, at least it's all in the past."

Jim glanced oddly between Lee and Sylvia. After a moment, Lee turned to Jim, asking, "So, the Strike Force…?"

"They're going on another raid," said Jim.

"So go striking with your Force," said Lee playfully. "What are we doing tonight?"

"Sleeping."

"Uh-uh. It's Date Night, Mister."

Jim noticed that his papers on his desk had been turned face-down and he glanced at Sylvia thankfully before turning to Lee with a bit of shock at the statement. Just as he did, Edward Nygma seemingly popped out of no where, and he had a large grin on his face.

From below the deck, the Desk Sergeant shouted, "PIZZA IS HERE!"

Josh glanced over the balcony, looking eager. He turned to Sylvia, about to ask the obvious. Sylvia tilted her head forward.

"Go 'head," She said.

Josh grinned from ear-to-ear, running down the stairs with the other sergeants as he went to get himself a slice. Jim glanced after Josh, turning to Sylvia.

"You've got him twisted around your finger, don't you?" Jim said suspiciously.

"Mm," Sylvia hummed, shrugging.

"I think it's kind of cute," Lee chirped, smirking. She looked at Ed, who appeared to have ants in his pants because he was moving excitedly, grinning too widely as though he couldn't wait to share his news.

"Good Morning, Ed." Jim greeted.

"Good Morning, Dr. Thompkins, Detective…." Ed acknowledged, glancing at Sylvia, adding, "And Mrs. Cobblepot. As you all very well know, I have started dating Miss Kringle…. _Kristen_."

They nodded, understanding this.

"Well, Kristen mentioned that it would be nice to have dates with other couples as well, so I was wondering if it would be compelling for us to all have a date together," said Ed smoothly, glancing between Lee and Jim.

Simultaneously, Lee said, "We'd love to!"

While Jim said, "We can't."

Confused, Ed looked between them. Lee and Jim glanced at one another, and apparently Jim was convinced to agree.

"Yeah," said Jim. "Sure. No, it'll be great. We'll do it."

Lee added, "I just bought a couple of Fondue pots; we can do it at my house!"

Ed, bright and happy as ever, said, "Oh, excellent! I'll let Kristen know!"

He walked off and Sylvia smirked at them. Lee looked happy as ever while Jim looked discernibly uncomfortable.

"I know, I know," said Lee, "but it was the decent thing to do!"

"Fondue." Jim repeated scornfully.

"Have you ever tried it? It's delicious!" Lee insisted.

"It's at _your_ place. There's no where to go. We'll be stuck there, trapped!" Jim said grumpily.

Lee chuckled, and caressed his face in her hands saying, "Don't be mean! It'll be fun, I promise! A little music, a little lighting..."

"A little bit of depression," Jim added.

"What'd I just say?" Lee said coyly. "Don't be mean!" She kissed his cheek. "Trust me. It'll be fun."

She walked away with a pep in her step. Sylvia chuckled; Jim looked at her.

"You have to come with me," said Jim earnestly.

"To a double date?" Sylvia inquired. "Sorry. No can do."

"Why not?"

"It's a double-date. Four people."

"You can bring Penguin if you want," Jim tried to convince.

"Wow, you _really_ don't want to be with them, do you?" Sylvia said incredulously. "Look, Jimmy. Even if I wanted to come with Oswald, it's impossible. He has an empire to run. Thanks to your raid on the Count House, things are just getting busier."

"I thought you didn't come here to talk about Penguin."

"I didn't," said Sylvia smoothly. She grinned broadly, adding, "But I like how your guilty conscience really sets you up for the same argument. Anyway, the raid isn't why I am here. I just miss you."

"I thought you were still angry with me."

"Oh, I am," said Sylvia. "Barging into my home and yelling at my husband wasn't exactly something I would easily forget. And I'm still holding that little grudge after you failed to show up on what was the most important day of my life..."

Jim grimaced with regret.

"However," said Sylvia, rolling her eyes to the ceiling and smiling at her brother, "Despite all that, you tried to be my brother the other day...'

Jim sat on the corner of his desk, saying, "I hope this is some type of segue that leads up to you telling me who's been threatening you."

"No. I can't tell you. I _want_ to, but I can't."

"You're pretty calm about it," said Jim.

"Well, it's not the first time I've had my life thrown into absolute turmoil, is it?" Sylvia said humorously. "Besides...I've missed you. And if it's worth anything, I am prepared to forgive the fact that you didn't show up to my wedding, or your mistreatment of my family. I'm willing to forgive all of that...if you're willing to forgive me."

Jim stared at her.

"Forgive you for what?"

"I keep telling you that you've not been a good brother," said Sylvia quietly. "But I've not been a very good sister either."

Jim grinned saying, "Well, if it's any consolation, I've not really made it easy for you."

"That, we can both agree on." Sylvia said.

They exchanged humorous smiles. Jim glanced over the balcony, noticing that the sergeants were telling Josh that he looked like a businessman. He was swimming in their praise, beaming.

"So, who's that guy to you?" asked Jim, sizing up Josh. "He looks out of place, even for your kind of work."

"Riff-rat I picked off the streets," said Sylvia. "He's part of my dance number."

"One of the Fire Bugs, huh? Does he tap-dance?"

"Why would he tap dance?"

"He's got the feet for it."

"Don't be mean," Sylvia chastised, but she allowed herself a small smile. "He's good at lifting people when the dance permits it."

"He doesn't look strong."

"There's more to him than what meets the eye," she reassured.

"Does Penguin know you're here?"

Sylvia gave him a look, saying, "Why would he?"

"He seems to keep a closer eye on you these days." Jim noted observationally.

"That, he does."

"Why do I feel like it has something to do with Caulfield's and Hobbs' death?" Jim questioned knowingly. "And...I bet it was Penguin that tried to kill Galavan during the same day. Tell me if I am wrong."

"You _know_ who it was. You don't need me to vindicate your suspicions," said Sylvia. "You have that little witness of yours."

Jim sighed, "You know you'd make my job a lot easier by telling me what's happening."

A hard smile replaced the gentle one, and Sylvia crossed her arms defensively, like she was protecting herself.

"You don't have to say the name," Jim insisted, getting to his feet. "If you're being watched, we can go in my car. Or, hell, just write it on a piece of paper. Here!" He shoved a notepad into her hands and gave her a pencil. "Tell me who's threatening you, Vee. I can help you."

"It bothers you that much, huh?" Sylvia said, grinning a little when she saw just how annoyed Jim was for knowing someone was picking on his little sister.

"You know it does," said Jim, grinding his teeth.

"But you know how these things work," she said, lowering the notepad onto the desk. "This person, Jim...they have people watching us. I don't know who I can trust anymore."

"You trust _that kid_?" Jim asked, glancing indicatively at Josh who was eating pizza with the Desk Sergeant below.

"How about this," said Sylvia. "You tell me who gave you the news on the Count House. I'll tell you who's threatening my livelihood."

"You know I can't do that," said Jim, frowning. "That's police business."

"And so is this," said Sylvia, raising the notepad, shoulder-level. "Someone's putting the screws to your sister, a _cop's_ sister. If that's not police business, I don't know what is."

"Tell me who it is," Jim said, his voice was strong with passion and earnest. "You can tell me. I just need a name. It doesn't even have to be the whole name! Look, this guy—whoever it is—needs to be brought to justice. If he's doing this kind of thing to you, who knows who else he's gone after, or _will_ go after!"

Sylvia smiled painfully.

"They have someone close to me, Jimmy," Sylvia whispered.

"Who?"

"I can't tell you that." Sylvia said quietly. "But it's someone close to me."

"What is the offender's gender? Male? Female?"

Sylvia mouthed, "Male."

"One step closer," said Jim, more to himself than Sylvia. "What's his alibi? Why is he doing this? What's the end game for him? Tell me any of that."

"He's rich," said Sylvia quietly. "He has the world at his fingertips, and every pawn on the chess board belongs to him. I don't know his end game. I don't know why he's doing any of this. He's told me what he wants to do and why he's doing it, but I don't believe it's the real reason. There's something more to understanding him...to beating him. I just don't know what that is."

"You've been hanging around Nygma," said Jim tiredly. "You're speaking in riddles."

Sylvia chuckled, "Well, unlike you, I love riddles."

"Let's forget about this then, if you won't tell me anything," said Jim, placing the notepad on his desk. " _Will_ you come to the date with me?"

"Lee will be jealous," said Sylvia, chuckling darkly. "Asking another girl on a date."

"Just please come with me. Like, I have _nothing_ to say to Ed or his girlfriend. It's going to be so awkward!" Jim pleaded. "What if I get on my knees, will that persuade you any?"

"Sure." Sylvia said, gesturing to the floor. "Have at it."

Jim grumbled to himself. Why on earth did he have to go and say that? Slowly, but surely, Jim got down on one knee, and begged, "Please come with me to the double date..."

" _Both_ knees, James," said Sylvia sharply.

"Damn it…." Jim mumbled. He knelt down on both knees, and put his hands together. "Please, please, _please_ come with me to this double date!"

"Ask me nicely."

"That _is_ nicely."

"Nope." Sylvia said. "I know you, Jim. You can do a lot better than that."

Jim sighed in defeat, bowing his head. He lied down on his stomach, looking up at her and said, "Please, Queen Sylvia Diana Cobblepot, will you accompany me to this double date that will no doubt be an awkward disaster if you don't come?"

"A little more," Sylvia pried, smirking down at him.

"Because you're the most lovable, awesome, sweetest, most loving sister in the whole wide world..." Jim continued.

"Come on. You know the rest."

"This is ridiculous," Jim sighed. "We're not even ten years old anymore."

"But you know it's what I want to hear!" Sylvia said amusedly.

Jim grumbled, "Pretty please, with sugar on top and candy corns, and peppermints…with extra frosting..."

"Don't forget the cherries!"

"...and the chocolate-covered cherries on top…."

"Good enough," said Sylvia.

Jim stood to his feet, grunting, "Man, I'm getting too old for this."

"You should try that begging stuff on Lee," said Sylvia, grinning impishly at him. "She'd love that kind of crap."

"Why on earth would I beg her for?"

Sylvia stared at him saying, "It's pretty much all Vanilla with you, isn't it, James? Doesn't Lee ever ask for like over-the-top stuff?"

"What do you mean?"

"Bring your handcuffs out—"

"That's government property!" Jim chastised.

"Pull her clothes off in the dark," Sylvia offered.

"She bought those clothes last week," Jim stated.

"The fact that you know that _and_ remember is something out of this world," said Sylvia, staring at him. "Look, Jim. If things ever get stale between the two of you, just remember this. Girls _love_ it when guys get dominant and possessive."

Jim stared at her saying, "What are you talking about? Seriously, what are we talking about right now?"

"BDSM," said Sylvia plainly. "Experimentation is a natural part of any relationship. You might just get a kick out of it."

"Why are you telling me this?" Jim asked uncomfortably.

"Because you seem like an innocent little boy who needs to know more about pleasing his woman," said Sylvia. "Trust me. Lee will thank you for it."

"I do just fine in the bedroom—not that you need to know any of that," said Jim.

"Well, get this. Choke her with your cock, and then lay her down over your coffee table—"

"Sylvia, stop—"

"Then make her beg…."

"Sylvia, please stop," Jim muttered. "This entire conversation is making me uncomfortable."

"Oh please, like you haven't thought about shoving her against a wall and cuffing her hands behind her back," said Sylvia mischievously. "You know—pushing her against the wooden table before the wood pushes back."

"What the hell does that even mean?" Jim questioned incredulously.

"You've really gotta get out more."

Jim said shakily, "You need to get out less."

Sylvia smirked, saying, "Well, it's a suggestion."

"I'm all suggestioned out." Jim said quietly. "Are you coming to the house, then, I take it?"

"Sure," said Sylvia, shrugging. "I'll bring a few things. It'll be fun. I might even give Ed some pointers—Kristen will love that."

"You'll make him feel awkward, Vee."

"Eh—who haven't I made awkward?" Sylvia said, cracking her knuckles.

Sylvia started walking away, but Jim caught her arm. She looked at him curiously as she was pulled back slowly. Jim wrapped his arms around her. Sylvia smiled in spite of herself and hugged him back.

"You know you can always come to me," Jim said quietly.

"Always," said Sylvia. She pulled back. "You know, Dad would be happy if he saw us like this. Lord knows he saw us fighting more than anything."

Jim kissed her forehead and Sylvia beamed.

"Sorry to interrupt this moment…."

Sylvia felt her stomach and insides boil as she glanced at the direction of the voice, seeing Galavan. Her body stiffened and Jim glanced at her curiously before turning professionally to him.

"Detective," said Galavan coolly, "Do you have a moment?"

"Of course." Jim said, nodding. He glanced at Sylvia, noticing how quickly her sweet, soft expression had hardened. "Are you okay, Vee?"

Sylvia gulped and nodded.

"I'll bring him back," Galavan promised, smirking at her.

Sylvia glowered at him. Jim gave her a curious look before he accompanied Galavan further away. Sylvia grinded her teeth together and then walked down the stairs, purposely shoving her shoulder against Galavan's. Jim glanced at the odd movement but politely ignored it so he could listen to what Galavan had to say.

Sylvia only listened long enough to learn that Galavan was seeking out Jim for endorsement.

Sylvia strode down the stairs, stopping by the desk sergeant where Josh was still eating the pizza.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Sylvia growled.

Josh thanked the sergeants for the pizza and quickly headed out after her.


	26. Paranoia And A Distraction

Chapter Twenty-Six: Paranoia and A Distraction

* * *

Oswald sat in the Meeting Room, eyes focused entirely on the fire. He'd pressed his mind over and over where his mother could be, and still there was nothing. Butch had not found anything, and his men, despite their earnest searching, had also come up empty-handed.

He wasn't sure if there was anyone he could trust. How many people did Galavan hire to keep an eye on him and his men? Was there a way of beating Galavan—if there was, why hadn't Oswald found it yet. He prided himself on reading people; using people's weaknesses to get what he wanted. But what was Galavan's weakness?

This man who had his mother in his clutches had done well to cover all of his bases. Asking for his mother to be brought back home hadn't done a damn thing. If anything, it had made Galavan appear stronger, more dangerous...and that wasn't helping him.

Oswald stared deeper into the fiery pit. In one hand, he held a glass, filled halfway with wine. He debated about drinking something stronger. But then he wouldn't have all his ducks in a row, would he? He needed to be coherent…

Forget the fact that his men may or may not betray him. Forget the fact that his mother was stuck in a cage, pleading and wondering why her devoted son had not come to rescue her just yet. Forget all of that. More importantly, Oswald wondered just where his Pigeon was sneaking off to every morning.

She wasn't training with Mr. Bell. Mr. Bell had informed him that Sylvia had not been with him at the track for the past five days. What was she doing then?

Oswald bit his bottom lip in contemplation. His right hand held the glass; his left remained empty, rubbing his fingers together in some way of coping. The small gesture was, if anything, an act of comforting himself. The thumb of his left hand coaxed the wedding band on his ring finger to move, twirling it around and around slowly, thoughtfully.

Where was his beloved sneaking off to? Why didn't she tell him yet?

Was she losing faith in his ability to maintain the empire that he'd built? That _they_ had built together?

Oswald frowned deeply.

Sylvia had become his constant. Against thick and thin, wrong or right, she'd remained a constant reminder to him that even in a world full of darkness and cloudy skies, there was still sun. Was his sun starting to cast shadows of doubt? Had someone turned her against him?

He was quick to deny it.

He'd show Galavan that his paranoia was getting to him, but just how much of that paranoia was fraudulent? Was it possible that Galavan had somehow turned _Sylvia_ against him?

He thought of her.

Sylvia was starting to wear more black and reds than the usual bright colors she'd been known to adorn. And he recalled that wedding day where he'd seen her in the yellow sundress. How beautiful, she looked. How beautiful, she still appeared. With all the stress he'd carried on his shoulders, Sylvia somehow was able to do the same. She wore the heavy crown as though it weighed less than a feather, and despite his temper, she'd maintained a certain clear, level head that he would sometimes forget to keep.

He lashed out at his subordinates; and sure enough, a few days later, he'd see that they were cleaned up and bandaged. Sylvia had become something of a nurse and a mother to his men, to her own people...he wondered if she would would be able to steal the empire from him.

Or was that her entire intention? To steal the empire from him, and give it to Galavan?

Oswald glared at the fireplace. He heard her footsteps before Sylvia had announced her presence.

"Where did you go this morning?" Oswald asked in the direction of the fireplace; his eyes flickered upwards and to her as Sylvia stepped in line sight.

She was barefoot, wearing a teal-colored robe. Her hair was wet from the shower water. Despite his suspicions, Oswald felt an obnoxious tug where he wanted it least. He couldn't deny that seeing her tangled wet locks draped around her shoulders carelessly, and the silk robed attempted to shroud her curves made him long for her.

Since Gertrud's kidnapping, Oswald and Sylvia had lacked intimacy.

"Why do you ask?" Sylvia asked mysteriously, clasping her hands in front of her. Like a dutiful wife.

Oswald eyed her.

"You've been distant," He pointed out. "You haven't said a single word to me all day."

"Well, you've been busy," said Sylvia, gesturing to the Meeting Room in general. "And I didn't want to disturb you."

"What about this morning?" Oswald voiced with shaking calm.

"What _about_ this morning?"

"You visited James Gordon," said Oswald.

"He _is_ my brother."

"Did you tell him anything?"

"Not a thing."

"Why do I get the feeling you're lying to me?" Oswald questioned, leaning towards his right and looking at her more closely.

Sylvia said coolly, "If you think I'm lying to you..."

"If you have something to confess, then _confess_. Otherwise, stop wasting my time." Oswald told her coldly.

"Stop wasting _your_ time?" Sylvia responded curtly. "You're accusing me of something. I don't know what. But I can reassure you that I've done nothing wrong."

"Have you not?"

Sylvia gave him a look as he stood to his feet.

"What do you _think_ I've done, Oz?" Sylvia questioned, placing her hands on her hips.

"What do **you** think?" Oswald retorted, glaring at her. "You've been disappearing off somewhere every morning, and you've not explained yourself—"

"I didn't realize I had any explaining to do," said Sylvia coolly. "What, you think I'm having an affair?"

"It's odd. That's actually crossed my mind a couple of times," Oswald pointed out.

Sylvia stepped towards him, glaring up at him.

"And where exactly do you think I'm going?" Sylvia asked. "Who the fuck would I be running off to?"

Oswald pursed his lips together, and he said nothing. But Sylvia could see it in his eyes. And what she saw made her glare daggers at him.

"You think I've turned against you?" Sylvia asked quietly.

"Haven't you?" Oswald questioned, gesturing to her. "We don't talk like we used to, you don't tell me where you've been going every morning for the past week? Who have you been meeting?"

Sylvia crossed her arms defensively.

She had no response, so Oswald thought the worst.

"Tell me their name! I swear to god, I will kill—"

"I'm not having an affair with anyone, Oswald!" Sylvia snapped. "I've not been running off to some stranger's apartment in the middle of the fucking day. I've been at my club, or at one of the other businesses..."

"Can anyone vouch for you?" Oswald asked.

"I'm not going to reveal my alibi," said Sylvia coldly. "I'm your wife. I don't _need_ one. And for your fucking information, Oswald Cobblepot, I don't deserve to be talked down to by anyone, _especially_ you. I'm **not** the one you need to be worried about—Galavan is. And this is exactly what he wants!"

"How do you know what he wants?" Oswald interrogated suspiciously.

Sylvia gaped at him.

"Oh my god, I can't even believe what you're implying." Sylvia muttered, rolling her eyes. "This is un-fucking-real." She started walking away, but Oswald lunged after her.

"It's true, isn't it?" Oswald questioned. "You and—and **Galavan**!"

Sylvia stared at him. He was breathing quick, his face contorted in rage. His eyes were brighter than usual, a kind of sky blue. He'd pushed her against the wall, his body pressed against hers. And he looked angry, so angry that he might just doing something he would later regret. He inadvertently put his hands on her; left hand around her throat, the other gripping her dominant wrist so tightly, she was certain the blood had stopped circulating past her wrist.

"Oswald..." Sylvia whispered. "I swear. I have not turned against you."

"How can I be sure?" Oswald said darkly, his voice nearly breaking. "How can I be certain?"

"Look at me." Sylvia said. "You can tell when I'm lying, can't you? I swear to god...I've not betrayed you. I'm still yours. I'm still your pigeon."

Oswald looked at her as she begged him to do. He saw her eyes, and he was certain he could see into her soul. They were bright as his. He could almost see his own reflection in them. He could also see that her eyes had become glossy, like she would cry.

He let her go, both her throat and wrist. He looked like he might let go of himself too. He stepped back and watched her continue to stay pinned against the wall, even though he was no longer forcing her against it.

"I'm sorry." Oswald told her quietly. "I can see now that you're not lying to me."

"It's okay." Sylvia said gently.

Oswald rubbed his face and muttered, "I feel like I'm losing my mind."

Sylvia looked at him empathetically.

"You need to stop thinking about it," she said gently. "You're driving yourself mad. We _both_ are."

"Am I?" Oswald said sardonically. "How can I stop thinking about it? About _her..._ They have her and what am I to do?"

Sylvia frowned saying, "I know I can't make you stop thinking about this whole situation. But you _do_ need a distraction. If it's only for a few minutes."

Oswald looked at her skeptically, saying, "I can't afford to be distracted."

"Well, you can't afford to be high-strung either." Sylvia reminded.

Oswald gave her another look: "I don't exactly have a choice."

"Come with me."

Sylvia took his hand and he followed her (more or less to see where she was taking him). She pulled him into the bedroom.

"Sylvia," muttered Oswald. "With the way I'm feeling, sex is the last thing I want to think about."

"I'm not asking you to," said Sylvia gently. "Just come to bed with me."

Relenting, Oswald undressed and climbed into bed with her; Sylvia took off her robe and slid under the covers. She pressed her body against him, and Oswald felt a certain connection with her that he'd not felt in several days. Their intimacy had been lacking over that time, and now, here it was again.

Sylvia nuzzled his neck, softly kissing the skin just beneath his ear and jaw. It sent a small, numbing shock between his legs. It was a weak spot, and she knew it all too well. She moved on top of him, her breasts rubbing lightly against his chest as their bodies melded together, as one. Oswald wrapped his arms around her back, unable to resist the urge to feel how well her curves lined atop of his body, so pliant and warm.

He felt her hips, how soft and curvy the small of her back flexed when his fingertips just barely grazed.

He smiled inwardly when her feet brushed against his legs; every part of her body needed to be touching his. And Oswald wanted the same thing.

Sylvia kissed his nose, smiling widely when he let out a little chortle. She kissed his cheek, and trailed those kisses to the corner of his mouth; he turned his head ever so slightly, and felt a glow of accomplishment when he heard Sylvia gasp as he brushed his lips against hers.

It felt like it was the first time since they'd kissed in a while. Not something so brief as a quick one before bed or what people gave each other before hurrying off to work. This was soft, tender, and meaningful. Oswald heard her sigh contentedly, and it brought about another heat wave.

Sylvia smirked, taking his wrists and pinning them above his head playfully. For a moment, she was in control. Or so she thought.

Her hips started to move a little more. She'd straddled him, her naked heat slowly grinding his semi-erection.

Sylvia crashed her mouth against his. The kissing started gathering more steam. Her lips parted ever so slightly and Oswald more than readily took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. She tasted like strawberries and margaritas; he tasted like red wine. She moaned in his mouth, this time with a little more need.

Oh, there's that third or fifth numbing electric shock again. He felt it shoot down his back in pleasurable spikes before zinging down to his shaft, up to the tip.

"I love you, Ozzie," Sylvia whispered.

"I love you too, Pigeon," Oswald whispered back.

It was quiet in the room. No car horns or angry customers, no messengers giving bad news, or police officers breaking down the doors. Not even the sound of the traffic outside entered through those double doors or barricaded windows. All Sylvia and Oswald could hear was the soft rustling of the sheets as their bodies moved together, and the quiet but discernible moans that escaped their lips.

Oswald lifted his hips, smirking when she let out an involuntary needy whimper. Yet another opportunity came knocking—while she was disarmed, he turned them so she was on her back and he was on top of her. Sylvia looked up at him reproachfully.

"That was a dirty trick," Sylvia said coyly.

Oswald flitted his fingers down her sides, making her shudder pleasurably. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him to her even closer.

"Tell me you're mine," Oswald said quietly.

"I'm yours."

"Again."

"I'm yours. Always," said Sylvia. She felt the head of his stiff cock nudging her entrance.

Oswald kissed her again, and she quickly responded to him.

"You're mine." Oswald mumbled, and just as he said so, his cock slowly sank inside of her.

She wasn't wet nearly enough, but just enough that he slid easily inside of her with only a small push of resistance. He rolled his hips against her, slowly pulling out only to thrust in with the same speed. He loved the way her body moved with his, so responsive.

Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her hands locking them together with her wrists. Along his shoulder blades, he could feel her nails slightly digging, just enough to spur him on but not enough to make him lose control. His desire for her was over the moon, but he wanted more than anything to be close to her.

"Mine," Oswald moaned. "All mine."

His dominant hand moved between them, holding her down by her throat. With her eyes closed, Sylvia craned her head back to grant him more access. This only made him harder. And she was grinning.

He quickened his thrusts. She was wet between her legs, drenching his cock in her excitement. And she was only getting wetter. Her face, neck, and chest were bright red, flushed with desire. Oswald kissed her roughly, so hard it nearly hurt. Sylvia entangled her hand in his hair, pulling. Oswald chuckled darkly, grabbing her hands in one of his, forcing them above her head.

"I like making love to you," Oswald told her, "but I know you want more than anything to be fucked like the slut that you are."

Sylvia grinned mischievously up at him, pleased that she'd gotten him in a dirty-talking mood already! Her bright blue eyes meeting his.

"Then stop holding back and fuck me like the slut that I am," she breathed.

It didn't take much.

"Turn." Oswald ordered breathlessly.

Sylvia rolled onto her front; she let out a gasp when he shoved her face into the mattress, silently ordering her to stay put. She wanted to test his limit, his boundaries. She quickly sat up on her knees.

"Stay, Sylvia. I don't like repeating myself."

He pushed her head back down, and pulled her waist upwards, rubbing his hands over her ass then down her back. She heard him groan, and Sylvia felt her insides ache for him. Just hearing how much he needed to be inside of her again was almost as good as the real thing.

Sylvia lifted her head, craning it around to see him admiring her backside. She smirked and stood on her knees again. Oswald exhaled a sigh of mock disappointment, wrapping his fingers around her neck and pulled her back to him; her back collided with his chest and she bit her lip when he hoarsely whispered in her ear, "Bad girl."

With his free hand, he reached around to her front, and slowly circled her engorged clit with his index finger, smirking when she wriggled against him.

"I'm sorry, I'll behave," Sylvia whispered.

"I'm sorry _what_?"

"I'm sorry, Sir." Sylvia squeaked.

She let out an involuntary moan as he dipped two fingers inside her pussy, twirling his fingers inside and curling them.

"Who's in control?" Oswald questioned darkly.

"You are."

"That's right," he whispered. "And what did I ask you to do?"

"To keep my head down."

"And did you do that?"

"No…."

"No, what?"

"No, Sir. I didn't." Sylvia said with a smaller voice. "I was curious."

"Mmmm. Why am I not surprised," Oswald said, kissing her cheek. "You have an innate curiosity, don't you, Pidge? You just can't help it."

"No, Sir." Sylvia mumbled.

She closed her eyes, and bit her lip when he circled her clit with his finger, randomly rubbing the nub when she least expected it. When he did, her body would twitch and shudder, and she'd let out the most beautiful sounds.

Oswald tilted his head, planting kisses down her neck and jaw. He kissed her earlobe.

"You try so hard to play innocent," he uttered. "I could almost believe it if it weren't the fact that I know you're not."

Sylvia turned her head, meeting his eyes.

"You know me too well, Osw—mm!" Sylvia let out a small keen when he rubbed her clit hard, some of her excitement dripped down the inside of her thigh.

"What was that, Dear?" Oswald asked, smirking at her.

Sylvia answered breathlessly, "I meant...You know me too well, _Sir_."

"Oh, the things I want to do to you," said Oswald, panting, "there's not a single Priest that would listen to my confession."

Sylvia said, "And what kind of things are those, Sir?"

Oswald pressed her against him, holding her throat firmly against his shoulder; her eyes were forced to look up at the ceiling fan above them. Oswald kissed her shoulder, bit it until she let out a small scream of pain, and then licked the mark, hearing her soft sigh of relief. He did the same thing along her neck, all the while he rubbed his finger gently over her clit. She stood her on her knees, leaning back against him.

"Sinful things," Oswald muttered.

"Tell me," Sylvia whispered. "Please, Sir. I want to know..."

"Of course you do, Pet. That is the point."

He placed two fingers inside her warm entrance, then a third. He moved them inside of her until they were soaked with her excitement, and she was begging for more, not just the teasing, but for his control.

"Please," Sylvia begged. "Please…"

"What do you want?" Oswald asked gently.

"Control me, _take_ me." Sylvia pleaded.

Oswald pushed her on her stomach and he mounted her eagerly. She wiggled underneath him; the action made his cock harder. He still thrusted his fingers in and out of her, grinning widely when his entire hand was soaked; Sylvia's legs lightly kicked, hoping it would spur him on.

And it did.

"I want you in a way I've never wanted you more," Oswald said hoarsely.

He rubbed the head of his cock against her ass, probing where he'd never gone before. He grabbed her hair, pulling it in one direction so her head spun to the other; he kissed her ear, whispering, "I need to be inside you more than anything."

"Please, Sir, just do it," Sylvia pleaded. "Please...I'll do anything. I'll be a good girl, I promise."

Oswald rubbed Sylvia's excitement along her puckered entrance, pressing first his index finger inside and when she wiggled her butt, he added a second one. Sylvia let out a soft moan, and a louder one when she felt Oswald sink his cock inside her pussy.

"Shh," Oswald uttered; his hand was still around her throat, even as he lowered his body on top of her. Like the lovely defiant little one that she was, Sylvia attempted to put up a fight but Oswald grabbed her flailing arm and pinned it against her back.

When his cock was slathered with her warm wetness, Oswald pulled out and slowly moved between her buttocks.

"Tell me to stop if you need to," Oswald reassured.

"Don't stop," Sylvia mumbled. "Keep going."

Oswald allowed her to adjust, inch by inch. He watched her face for any subtle cues of resistance, but all he could see were expressions of desire and contentment—and she became the only thing he could see, hear, or think about.

Certain she would not deny him (and how could she, really), Oswald slowly pulled out only to slide back in. The muscles insides her ass were tighter and a lot less eager to let him go, so pulling out was an interesting journey; thrusting back in was an even more interesting one. He expected for her to stop him at any given moment, but instead, her free hand squeezed his hand that was wrapped around her throat, egging him on.

"Fuck," Oswald groaned. "Do you see what you do to me…."

"Harder," Sylvia moaned. "Please, Sir. I need it."

"You and me, both," He agreed breathlessly.

He was enforcing a sense of restraint. He wanted her in every shape and form, in her ass, in her pussy, against a wall, on a chair—it was starting to sound more like a Dr. Seuss knock-off instead of a list of all the ways he pictured her.

Oswald had lost his concentration and slipped out of her, nearly losing his rhythm. Sylvia let out a small laugh, and he smiled too. He put himself back inside her, and Sylvia moaned again.

"Harder." Sylvia begged.

He thrust inside harder. He placed his weight on top of her; his chest against her back, his head resting against her shoulder. He let go of her wrist and she moved her hand onto the sheets; Oswald smirked inwardly when he watched her hand grasp at the bedding, knuckles clenched.

The headboard creaked, being shuttled back and forth with the slight bounce of their bodies. Sylvia pushed against him impatiently, wanting more in so little time.

"Stop wriggling," Oswald ordered.

"But—" Sylvia moved her hands impatiently, and he grabbed them, pinning them on the bed, on either side of her shoulders.

In a way, she pouted, but it was the probably the cutest—if not the hottest—thing he'd ever seen. Oswald whispered in her ear, "Patience, Pet. Be good for me."

Sylvia moaned when he moved deeper inside. Her body pressing hers into the mattress was the second best feeling in the world. His hands immobilized hers, his body pinned her body between it and the bed; Sylvia craved this sort of physical intimacy, but her insides truly burned with passion when he placed his hands on hers, and his fingers interlaced with them slowly, his thumb stroking over her thumb.

"I love you so fucking much," Oswald groaned.

Sylvia smirked at him, saying, "Sir curses a lot when he's in bed."

Oswald started thrusting roughly, and she was unable to make any audible sounds, let alone complete sentences. He was so close to coming, it would be the hardest time to stop now. He started seeing stars, his sight almost blackening as he came inside her so hard that he collapsed.

When he collected his wits again, Oswald panted, "Turn over, Pidge."

With shaky legs, Sylvia did as she was told and was transfixed when he moved between them.

"Oz, what are you—"

Oswald pushed her legs apart wider, his hands on her inner thighs. Without much prompting, Oswald took her clit in his mouth and sucked gingerly. Her question dissolved into grateful moans.

"Fuck..." Sylvia murmured, biting her bottom lip as Oswald dipped his tongue inside her pussy.

Her fingers tangled in his raven hair, her back arching as he ate her as though she would be his last meal for years. He moved his hands and grabbed her butt, lifting it so he could delve his tongue deeper.

"Fuck," Sylvia moaned. " _Fuck_...oh my god, I'm so close."

Drinking her in, Oswald touched his thumb against her clit, rubbing it slowly as he'd done before. Dipping his tongue inside her, Oswald watched her face and body respond in bliss.

"Baby, please…." Sylvia pleaded. "I'm almost there….don't stop!"

Just as she was edging, Oswald rubbed her clit feverishly. It was the trigger and it set her off like the Fourth of July. Her scream started out as a soft moan and in seconds became a beautiful song. If he hadn't gotten off before, Oswald was certain her sounds alone could make him come.

She was slowly coming down from her high, legs shaking, and breath slowly becoming slow and normal. Sylvia looked at him tiredly, smiling.

Oswald moved to sit beside her. Sylvia shakily sat up.

"Thank you, Pigeon," Oswald uttered softly, smiling at her.

"It distracted you," said Sylvia. "That's all I was trying to accomplish. If only for a moment."

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

"You're my sun and my stars," Sylvia uttered. "If I could only give you one thing it would be for you to see yourself in the same way as I see you."

"And in what way is that?" Oswald asked.

"You're my King," she said. "With or without the crown. Money or no money. You are my King. And no amount of influence—threat or otherwise—would ever make me turn against you. Remember that."


	27. Oswald's Gift

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Oswald's Gift

* * *

Sylvia looked in the mirror. To the double date, she'd planned on wearing something festive and casual but business-like. Neither Jim nor Lee had informed her on the matter of dress, but Sylvia suspected that it wouldn't be a formal occasion. After what might have been five different outfit changes, she'd finally gone with number six.

Blue jeans with an off-the-shoulder, blood-red shirt. It matched the fire in her hair, which she'd pulled up into a pony tail. Still…

She started second guessing the outfit again.

"Where are you heading off to?" Oswald asked, walking into the bathroom. He wore his typical business suit, looking more chipper than he had in the past few days.

"Dr. Thompkins and Jim have a double date," said Sylvia.

"And you're going?" Oswald asked curiously.

"As a plus-one," said Sylvia.

"Who's the other couple?"

"Ed and Kristen."

"Who?"

Sylvia smirked at him saying, "They work with Jim."

Oswald looked at her skeptically.

"It's fine, Ozzie," Sylvia said reassuringly. "Jim asked me to come."

"Why?"

"He doesn't like being alone with Ed."

"Who's Ed?"

"He works in the Forensics department," she informed. "Pretty passive guy, a bit of a nerd. But otherwise, polite."

"Is this a friend of yours?" Oswald asked coolly.

"Yes." Sylvia said gently. She looked at him curiously. "How's that paranoia of yours?"

Oswald gave her a look, saying, "You can understand my concern, can't you?"

"More than anyone. But, be rest assured, you haven't anything to worry about. Jim is awkward, Edward is awkward, and the girls are conventional. If anything, the worst thing to come out of this is I become constipated from the cheese fondue."

Oswald cracked a smile saying, "That's the worst-case scenario, is it?"

"Yes, it is." Sylvia said playfully. "Assuming I can walk. You pretty much destroyed me from the waist down. My legs are like jelly, right now. I blame all of it on you."

Oswald said lightly, "You're trying to butter me up."

"Well, yes, but I'm also speaking out of honesty," said Sylvia.

She snaked her arms around his neck, looking up at him. Oswald placed his hands on her hips gingerly. She felt the heel of his cane tap once against her ankle.

"We should do the same thing tonight," said Sylvia.

"It's only been a couple hours since the last—"

Oswald was stopped in mid-sentence as Sylvia pulled him to her, shoving her mouth against his. But he was more than happy to reciprocate. He pushed her against the bathroom door, feeling that sudden rush of adrenaline as her back collided against it.

"Tonight," Sylvia uttered breathlessly. "But faster."

"And harder."

"Promise?" Sylvia said, grinning widely at him.

"Cross my heart," Oswald returned.

Sylvia kissed him gingerly. He returned it.

"Be careful." Oswald told her.

"Always am. Before I forget, I have something for you."

"Do you?" Oswald said, watching her exit the bathroom.

He followed her into the living room of the mansion, watching her bend down at the waist as she sifted her hands under the middle cushion of the couch. When she found what she was looking for, she pulled it out and handed it to him.

It was a cane, much like the one he held, but instead, this one was far more personalized. It was steel with an ebony, glossy finish. What was more was that the handle itself was that of a silver-polished abstract figure of a penguin's head in its shape and, in particular, the beak. Sylvia straightened, getting to both of her feet, and smiled when Oswald took it gingerly.

"It's a penguin," said Sylvia, pointing to the handle.

"You didn't have to," Oswald said, although he could barely stop himself from grinning.

"But I did," said Sylvia playfully. "What do you think?"

"It's beautiful."

Sylvia crossed her arms casually, watching him look it over.

"Take the handle off," said Sylvia impishly.

"It comes off?"

"Of course, it comes off," she encouraged. "Go on."

Oswald lifted the handle, and grinned even wider when the handle of the cane became the handle of that of a sharp dagger. He'd thought of making something like this before, but with everything going on, he'd not bothered. Perhaps, for its intended purpose, it was the best time to have it.

"Everything about it is exquisite," said Oswald. "I thought about doing this for..."

"A long time, yeah?" said Sylvia knowingly. She smirked when Oswald looked at her, taken aback. "I listen to you when you sleep, Ozzie. You have a habit of doing a bit of sleep-talking."

"I talked about this when I was asleep?" Oswald said incredulously.

"Not every detail, but I got the gist," Sylvia admitted. "'A knife that's hidden'...and more sleep gibberish. That's all I had to go on, but I figured with your moniker...it'd suit you well."

"I should say it does." Oswald said, grinning happily like a boy who'd gotten the best Christmas gift ever.

"Also," said Sylvia, stepping closer to him. "I've heard you moan in your sleep. I can't imagine what your dreams are about, but I would _love_ to know."

"Most likely, they involve you," Oswald admitted.

"Of course. But I want details, man."

"I can't remember them. Not off the top of my head," said Oswald.

Sylvia grinned widely, ear-to-ear.

"Since you have a hidden weapon of yours, I guess that means I should carry one on my own person, huh?" Sylvia offered less than enthusiastically.

Oswald watched her curiously as she sauntered into the next room, coming out with a hand-gun, small enough to fit in her palm.

"Where?" Oswald asked.

"More like 'Whom'." Sylvia specified.

"Should I be concerned?"

"It's from Victor," said Sylvia.

Oswald looked at her stoically.

Sylvia kissed his cheek, saying, "You needn't worry about him, honey. If it's any consolation, I've seen him half-naked and there were _no_ sparks going on between my legs, not even enough to start a smoke signal."

Oswald's eyes widened at the discovery, but he allowed himself a small grin when she finished the rest of that sentence.

"Your jealousy is understandable," said Sylvia. "But trust me. You can't lose me."

Oswald beamed at her as she kissed his cheek.

"If something unfolds as far as Galavan is concerned, you'll let me know, won't you?" Sylvia asked.

"Of course." Oswald responded.

"And I will do the same," she promised. "I love you, Daddy Penguin."

"I love you too, Mama Pigeon."

She walked out of the mansion. As she did, Oswald watched after her. As though on cue, Gabe stepped forward, looking expectantly at Oswald.

"Follow her," He ordered.

"You think she's lying to you, Boss?"

"I don't know what to think—I know she was telling the truth."

"What if she was pretending to pretend to tell the truth?" Gabe asked.

"I know my own wife. Just follow her and make sure no harm comes to her."

"Sure, sure," Gabe said quickly. "I'm just saying. _You_ thought she was disloyal too, Boss."

"A mistake I won't make again," Oswald promised. "Now. Please go."

"Yes, sir." Gabe said, giving him a small salute before walking to the car and following Sylvia's.


	28. The Double-Date Disaster

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Double Date Disaster

* * *

Sylvia took the backroads. It wasn't a common thing for her to do, but there was a nagging feeling happening in her brain. The car had been tailing her for the past thirty minutes; it went down every road she turned on, and every where she stopped, it stopped as well.

 _Someone is following me._

That was the thought she was trying so hard to ignore. But every turn she took, it became louder and louder. And the gut feeling became stronger.

She sighed, looking in her rearview mirror when after she'd turned five more times, the car was still behind her.

Yep, there was no doubt about it. Someone was following her. Friend or foe, she'd have to find out one way or another. If it was friend, fine. She could understand that mistaken identity, or whatever. If it was an enemy, they needed to be eliminated as soon as possible; she'd rather not lure an enemy to the only family she had left that had not been tainted by Galavan's influence or otherwise hostile plans.

Sylvia stopped at the closest gas station, backing up just enough where, if needed, she could high tail it over the curb and then get the fuck as far as possible from whomever was tail-gating. For a moment, she sat in her car. If this person was a foe, they'd likely come up to her car door when she least expected it, and try to kill her.

Unless…

Sylvia emitted a low, frustrated sigh.

Couldn't she have one day when nothing happened. Was there such a thing as a boring day in Gotham City.

Obviously not.

Sylvia placed the engine in park, pulled out her key, and walked inside the gas station. She'd eventually have to stop somewhere; after all, she'd offered to make something, right? With nothing else in mind but bakery sweets, Sylvia opted to make a pie; apple pie seemed to suit most people's tastes, so apple she bought. She decided that she'd make it from scratch; after all, Lee loved cooking. What was a little bonding between her and her brother's girlfriend?

Because it worked so well for her the last time, Sylvia wondered cynically.

Then again, Lee looked as though she wouldn't have a psychotic break any time soon. Then again, that's what she figured about Barbara and look where that got her.

Sylvia checked the items at the register, received a small titter from the cashier about apple goods, and she made her way back to her car. She noticed the vehicle that had been following her had parked exactly in the parking space beside her.

What an idiot.

Sylvia gave it a once-over, noticing that there was no one in the car.

What the—

"Don't move."

Sylvia held her hands up, startled. The voice was gravelly, not one she recognized. The man (was it?) that had spoken moved closer to her.

"Whoever you are," said Sylvia quietly, "you'd be wise to just let this woman be and move on."

"I know who you are."

"Then you're stupid."

"Turn around."

Sylvia did as she was ordered, keeping her hands up. She saw a man wearing nothing more than a mask. He was tall, big-boned (much like the rest of Gotham, it seemed) and wore a black mask. The beady eyes that shone from it reminded her of an insect.

"Who am I?" Sylvia questioned cynically.

"I don't need to know _who_ you are." The man growled. "I only need to know _what_ you are."

"The fuck are you talking about?" Sylvia said callously. "You're a man in a fucking mask. You don't even have the balls to show your own face, never the less assume who or what I am."

"You're a talker." The man stated as pure fact.

"Look who's talking," Sylvia responded, gesturing to him. "I bet there aren't even any bullets in that gun of yours. Where'd you get it? From your grandma's purse?"

"Shut up—it's a real gun…." The man said, shaking the gun at her. "And you don't know a thing about my grandmother."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows, closed her eyes, thinking, 'Are we really doing this number….right now, seriously?'

"I'm taking this car," said the growling man. "If you know what's good for you, you'll stay right there….and you won't move a _darn_ muscle."

"Oh for pete's sake. Just say 'damn'." Sylvia muttered.

"That's right. Stay there. Don't move," he said.

"Am I a fucking cat?" Sylvia said, glancing around. "What kind of animal are you talking to because it sure as hell isn't me!"

"I'm this close to putting one in your head, you stupid—."

Gabe came up from behind the growling man and knocked the man out with one hard punch to the face. Gabe watched him fall, and Sylvia lowered her hands to her sides.

"What the hell, Gabe? Why'd it take you so long?" Sylvia questioned.

Gabe stared at her saying, "You knew I was following you?"

"Of course, I knew," said Sylvia. "I know your car—and it's red. You know how many people get ticketed just by driving a red fucking car?"

"Well," said Gabe weakly, "You seemed like you knew what you were doing. Plus, I knew you'd be mad when you found out that I was following you."

"I don't even have to ask why."

"Good."

"But just to be sure, _tell me why_." Sylvia ordered.

"Sylvia, look. I had no choice."

"Tell me why, Gabriel." Sylvia said strictly.

Defeated, Gabe threw his hands down, bowed his head and muttered something that Sylvia couldn't understand.

"Louder, Gabriel."

"Penguin told me to," said Gabe, looking at her.

"Any reason why?"

"He's trying to protect you," said Gabe.

"Well, that's sweet. But Gabe, we both now how this is going to end. I'm going to tell you that I can handle myself. You'll protest. And I will insist. You'll give up, go back home, and—"

"No."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows, walking towards him.

"Excuse me?" Sylvia questioned.

"The last time I left you alone, you ended up being at gunpoint with that ginger-haired maniac. I nearly got my ass handed to me."

"'Nearly'," reminded Sylvia. "And you didn't. Because I was there to intervene."

"To hell with that, man. I've seen what Penguin does when he gets bad news—he beat Stanley like he was a pillow full of feathers. I can't take a beating like that!" Gabe said fearfully. "You're not about to get out of my sight, ma'am. No, thanks!"

Sylvia sighed, "Gabe. I'll be honest: I have a dinner date I have to go to, and there's no fucking way that Jim or anyone else there will want you there. It's going to be awkward enough as it is, so please, just do me a favor, and—"

"I can't go back now, Sylvia," Gabe insisted. "You know what Penguin will do when I come back and you're not with me—or if something else happens to you? Hell no. Hell-to-the-no."

"First things first, don't talk like that again. Stop hanging around Henry and Marcy, that 'hell-to-the-no' crap is what they do. I'll hear it from them because they're young, but I'm not going to take it from you. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Second, don't interrupt me when I am talking. That's fucking rude."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Third and last but not least, you're not going anywhere." Sylvia said coolly. "Oswald ordered you to follow me, correct?"

"Yeah."

"And you have, and you will," said Sylvia. "You'll stay by my car and wait by my car. You'll first go into this gas station, get a few snacks and drinks because it'll probably be a good hour or two hours before you're permitted to leave the vicinity of this car and because that's how long I imagine this dinner will last. Any comments or equivocations so far?"

"None," said Gabe, nodding.

"If I am in trouble, you'll probably hear the girls screaming and you'll hear me say _**GABE**_ " (She screeched his name and Gabe shuddered at the sound, then her voice returned to normal) "And after that, you'll dive into the apartment where, no doubt, you'll act out some hero-like or devil-like act of rescuing me, or—if it went badly—avenging my death."

Gabe looked at her, waiting for her to say more.

"All understood?" Sylvia said, holding her hand out. "Is that something we can agree on?"

"Yeah, Sylvia."

"Good," She said. "Now..." She glanced at the body of the man who'd made a half-wit attempt of robbing her. "What are we going to do with him?"

"We can throw him in the trunk," said Gabe. "Find out who sent him."

"No one sent him," said Sylvia.

"What if Galavan—"

"Galavan's lackeys are smarter and more fashionably dressed than this tripe," said Sylvia, kicking the man's shoes that cost less than her shirt. "For all we know, he recognized me from the news, saw who I was, and thought he could get a few bucks off me."

Gabe shrugged, saying, "We could still probably get some information from him."

"Probably," sighed Sylvia. "At best, this piece of fish could likely have some information on at least where Galavan does his dirty work. At worst, he's a sad, lonely piece of shit who doesn't know how to curse worth a damn."

Gabe chuckled, "Yeah, I thought that was kind of funny."

"Me too," said Sylvia, grinning broadly. "What do you wanna do?"

Gabe stared at her, saying, "You want _me_ to decide?"

"Why not," she said, shrugging. "You seem like you know a few things."

He gaped at her, open-mouthed, speechless.

"Well?" Sylvia said, encouraging him. "What's your plan, Big Man? Throw him into the river? Rob him?"

"I think we should tie him up, throw him in the trunk and question him."

"Which trunk? Yours or mine?"

"Well, since your brother's a cop, I think we shouldn't chance it. Let's put him in my car."

"You're a smart fella," said Sylvia, smiling proudly at him. "I knew there's a reason I liked you."

Gabe looked as though he might shed a tear as he grinned at the compliment saying thoughtfully, "Wow. Thanks!"

Gabe lifted the guy up and threw him none too gently in the back of his trunk. Sylvia watched him close and lock it.

"You know," said Gabe. "Now that I think about it—even if he don't have anything to say about Galavan and his sister, we can still tell Penguin this guy put you at gunpoint and tried to rob you."

"What would that accomplish?" Sylvia questioned. "All it'll do is make Oswald angry."

"Yeah, but even _you_ gotta admit that you like seeing Penguin in action when he's all pissed off," said Gabe, grinning. "It's always funnier when it's not happening to you."

Sylvia thought about that for a moment. A bloody Penguin, all wrapped up in emotion.

"You've got a point," said Sylvia. "At best, even if we don't have anything, we still have entertainment. Good thinking, Gabe!"

Gabe grinned proudly. It was, by far, the best moment of his life. Sylvia got into her car; Gabe sat in the driver's seat of his, and they gunned it down the highway to Lee's house.

* * *

As decided, Sylvia parked the car in front of Lee's house, noticing that no one else had arrived. Granted, none of them had really set a time for dinner—what was 'evening' after all? Four o'clock? Seven? When did this dinner actually begin, supposedly no one knew. Just dress up, show up, eat up, and maybe later, throw up (depending on how fresh the Fondue was later on in the day). As permitted, Gabe parked across the street, watching her until she walked into the house.

Sylvia was greeted by Lee in the same fashion she'd seen at the station. Apparently, Lee's outburst that Sylvia was insane for going along with Jerome at the gala had been overlooked, seeing as it was by her own will that Lee hadn't been stabbed in the face by Barbara Kean—Jerome had stopped her, all thanks to the deal that Jerome and Sylvia had struck only moments before. Or maybe, really, it was because Jerome didn't want the fun to start just as things were getting interesting.

Either way, Sylvia's intentions had been made clear, even after the fact.

Lee welcomed Sylvia into her home, enlightened by the fact that Sylvia planned on baking the pie with her help. As expected, Lee pardoned the 'mess' that was the clean living room and kitchen because she hadn't expected anyone to arrive so early.

"It's odd," said Sylvia. "I normally arrive fashionably late to things so this is a nice change."

Sylvia started mixing the batter while Lee had started the fondue process. It didn't seem too hard, but Sylvia wasn't the cook: Mr. Bell was, by far, the better cook of the household. And when she did cook, it was normally meats and that kind of variety. Cheese just wasn't a go-to for evenings.

"How's work?" Sylvia asked, leaning against the counter as the pie baked in the oven.

"It's busy," said Lee, shrugging. "Keeps me on my toes. What about you?"

Sylvia smiled at her. And Lee seemed to gather the reason why.

"I know what you do," said Lee, confronting the elephant in the room. "You either work with Penguin or for him. I don't know which, but Jim seems okay with it for the most part, so I guess I should be too."

"He's 'okay' with it?" Sylvia repeated incredulously. "That's definitely not the word I'd use."

"What word would you use?" Lee asked.

"He tolerates it," said Sylvia. "If anything, he ignores the fact."

"It's because he loves you," Lee assumed.

"Is that the reason?"

"What else could it be? He's a detective in the Gotham Police Department."

"I'm aware."

"And the captain we have now is a by-the-book guy," Lee added.

"They're all like that," said Sylvia as she leaned her back against the counter. "Wait until your new captain stops being so green. Wait for him to see just how bad Gotham is."

"Well," said Lee courteously. "I can't say it's easy. Look how quick Jim became cynical. And you can tell he's trying hard not to be."

Sylvia smirked, saying, "You needn't be polite with me, Lee. We both know what you think about my choice of work."

"I don't know what you mean," said Lee as she walked past Sylvia to retrieve the crock pots as well as the fancy dinner plates.

"You blame Jim's cynicism on my work, and on Penguin, and—if I'm not being too blunt here—myself, included. You think that Jim would have an easier time being an officer if the rest of us would just blend in with the background, become an easily ignorable white noise machine. If crime disappeared off the face of the earth, Jim wouldn't need to be a police officer anymore. His life wouldn't be in danger, and—ergo—neither would yours. The world, including Gotham, would become one of simplicity and sobriety."

Lee smiled despite herself, saying, "You certainly know how to read people."

"I learned from the best," said Sylvia.

"Jim?"

"Ironically, no," said Sylvia. "I learned it from the man you blame your problems on: Penguin."

"Sylvia, I don't mean to be rude," said Lee politely. "But it's not the work I blame things on. It's the people that cause the bad things to happen. You're wrong to think I blame Jim's cynicism on you; if anything, his optimism is the reason I have you to thank for that."

Sylvia laughed, "Now you're just being funny!"

"No, seriously," said Lee, grinning. "You should hear what he says about you—he's told me the stories about when you and him were kids, and all the funny things you all did when you were that age. He loves you a great deal, even looks up to you sometimes. I think something like that is hard to come by—especially with what you two deal with on a daily basis."

Sylvia crossed her arms and leaned over the counter towards Lee, saying, "What kind of things does he say? I doubt any of them are true."

"Well, lots of things," said Lee.

She pulled out of the refrigerator a thawed steak and potato wedges. She placed the steak in a pan; it started to sizzle; after the apple pie had finished baking, she pulled it out, placing it on the counter and replaced it with the potato wedges. She touched the pie gently, and said happily, "It looks so good, Sylvia—a true masterpiece!"

Sylvia watched her.

"Tell me something in particular," said Sylvia.

Lee shrugged and sat at the dinner table, pulling a chair aside and placing one in front of her, indicating for Sylvia to take a seat. She did.

"Well," said Lee thoughtfully. "There's this one story where you and Jim were about five years old and you had a blanket you loved. And Jim had his own blanket he loved. At some point, some kid from the playground took his blanket and shredded it in some weird playground toy and he started crying, like bawl-baby crying." (Sylvia chuckled at the memory.) "And to stop Jim from crying, you cut _your_ blanket in half, and gave that half to him. And he stopped crying."

Sylvia smiled saying, "I loved that damn blanket to death, too. The little dork."

Lee grinned.

"What else?" Sylvia asked.

"You all were teenagers, and some kid gave you a valentine's day card. Jim punched him in the face," Lee recollected.

"We were eight years old, not teenagers." Sylvia corrected.

"Well, Jim said you were teenagers."

"It'd have made more sense then," said Sylvia, nodding.

Lee smirked, saying, "He seems protective of you."

"He's my older brother," said Sylvia, holding her hand up dismissively. "I think it's permissible."

"Well, he's told me a few times when you were protective of _him_."

"No, he hasn't," said Sylvia, calling her bluff.

Lee chuckled, "Wanna bet?"

"I'd lose that bet."

Lee said coyly, "He said there was one girl in class that liked him a lot, even tried to ask him out. You supposedly found out that this girl was a...I don't know what he called it..."

"A dick magnet," Sylvia recalled. "She was three years his senior and no good for him."

"I thought he said she had very high marks..."

"She was also an easy target for anyone who had a tripod," Sylvia replied. "No good."

Lee grinned saying, "What about me?"

"What _about_ you?"

"Do you think I'm good for him?" Lee questioned.

"You don't want to know what I think," Sylvia scoffed, getting to her feet.

Lee looked at her curiously.

"I do, though. You're his sister."

"I'm also way too blunt for your own good," she warned. "If you want my opinion, ask Jim. He can tell you what I think."

"I don't want to hear it from him. I want to hear it from you," Lee said outright, looking at her readily. "If you have something bad to say about me, I'd like to hear it."

Sylvia gave her a small smile.

"It's nothing bad," she reassured.

Lee stood, saying, "Then why wouldn't I want to hear it?"

"Because I'm too perceptive of myself and others that I know that what I will say will come from a good place but come out in a not-so-good way." Sylvia offered lightly.

"Tell me."

"It's too biased."

"Tell me anyway," Lee encouraged.

Sylvia said bluntly, "You are probably the best person that Jim could be with. That being said, I absolutely despise you for it. You are what I've never been able to become, the woman that my entire family has always strived for me to be, and the type of person I have always _hated_ because I know—no matter what you do—there's always going to be a part of me that likes you."

"Why?" Lee asked.

"Because you're my brother's girlfriend," said Sylvia.

Lee said politely, "Is that why you like Barbara?"

"Kinda," said Sylvia. "She and I share a history. A history that involves me running around and trying to protect her from people that worked for Fish, and a history of going back and forth between her and Jim, trying to solve their problems. Over time, she had become family. Once she and Jim were no longer together, she kinda cut ties with me."

"Did it hurt?"

"More than I care to admit, especially to someone like you," said Sylvia, aloof.

"So what I am hearing is that you don't want me to be with Jim because you'll like me, grow attached to me, and if or when things don't work out with Jim and me, you'll fear that I'll cut ties with you and I won't want to be your friend again?" Lee asked.

Sylvia said quietly, "Are you _sure_ you're not a licensed psychologist?"

Lee chuckled, "I do good work."

"That, you do."

"Well, for what it's worth, I like you too," said Lee, smiling genuinely. "You have some confusing feelings, but they're not uncommon. If anything, I was afraid you didn't like me because I make Jim happy."

"That's stupid. I _want_ Jim to be happy."

"Well, you've got something of an overprotective-possessive vibe," said Lee, wiggling her finger at her. "Sometimes, you sincerely scare the shit out of me."

Sylvia laughed, "That's the first time I've heard you curse!"

Lee smiled, a little embarrassed: "Well, you know."

Sylvia looked over her shoulder at the steak that was sizzling a little longer on its side; quickly, Lee grabbed a spatula and flipped it on its other side, happy to note that the house hadn't burned down.

"Now that the mushy wushy stuff is out the window," said Lee. "How about we get things revved up for when Ed and Kristen come?"

"What's your music preference?"

"Whatever makes my foot tap," said Lee.

Sylvia smiled, saying, "Me too!"

She turned on the stereo, and the two women started bee-bopping to 'Girls Wanna Have Fun'.

* * *

The steak was grilled; the pie was in the refrigerator; the cheese fondue was approaching maximum tasting overdrive; and the wine drinking would soon begin. It wasn't long before Ed and Kristen joined the party, equally happy to see that Sylvia was in attendance.

"I didn't think you were going to be here," Ed said, enlightened.

"Well, Jim offered me to come along," said Sylvia, smiling. "It's the least I could do."

Kristen greeted her (surprisingly) with a hug and Sylvia returned it. She didn't know Kristen Kringle that well, but she was grateful that it didn't stop the records custodian from the extroverted approach. The music stereo was on fire, with a hopping song and while Lee was bee-bopping to this song as well, Sylvia took a seat with Ed on the couch, both of them watching Lee and Kristen dance like girls at a sleepover.

"Looks like things are going well between you two," Sylvia noted, looking at Ed. "I like this confident side of you. Where have you been hiding him?"

Ed said mysteriously, "Honestly, he's been there the entire time. It was just a matter of allowing him to take control."

"That's an interesting take on it," Sylvia observed. "Kristen seems to like it."

"That's true," said Ed, smiling widely.

"Get up here," Kristen encouraged, gesturing to Ed. "Come dance with me!"

"I'm afraid I'm no good at—"

"Go on, Ed. Go dance with her," Sylvia coaxed, pushing him forward.

He tripped forward, smiling modestly at Kristen before he started doing the Vogue, and, shortly after, the Sprinkler. Sylvia raised her eyebrows, quite certain Kristen might wonder just _who_ she was with until she started laughing and doing the same thing. Sylvia made a face of odd satisfaction—there was a pot for every kettle, evidently.

Sylvia bypassed the next song, preferring a drink rather than a song. She heard her phone go off. Sylvia glanced at it, seeing a single text message from Oswald.

' _I love you_ ', it read.

Sylvia smiled at it, and sent one back to him, reading, ' _I love you too._ '

She half-expected a heart-emoji, oddly surprised that she expected anything else from him. He wasn't one for sending text messages; then again, she was sure that he was in a mood after their brief encounter and was hoping he could pull her away from the situation and back to the mansion.

Sylvia poured four glasses of wine, including one for herself. She placed them on four coasters, respecting Lee's pride of a stainless glass coffee table.

The music had moved into something of a classical piece. They all took a seat on the couch.

"So," said Kristen, "What kind of things do you do, Sylvia?"

Sylvia said lightly, "That's an interesting question to start things off."

"Well, we're biding our time, waiting for Jim to come. Shouldn't we know a few things about each other since it appears we're going to be doing this more than once?" Kristen asked.

"Perhaps," Ed offered, "it's best that we talk about something else _other_ than work. We spend so much time at work as it is, I doubt any of us want to talk about that."

"You have a point," Kristen said, nodding. She turned to Lee, saying, "Where do you buy your clothes? They're beautiful."

As Lee answered the question, Sylvia turned to Ed and mouthed, "Thank you."

He mouthed back, "You're welcome", along with a knowing smile.

One awkward encounter of what would likely be many more to come.

In the time that followed, it was apparent that Jim was going to be late.

"He has a habit of running late," said Lee in explanation for why Jim wasn't there.

"He's a detective," said Kristen, nodding. "He probably gets tied up in something every week."

"Every day of every week," Lee corrected humorously. "I find it hard to find one boring day in Gotham."

"The crime level is so high these days," Kristen agreed.

A beat passed.

Kristen glanced at Sylvia saying quickly, "I didn't mean any disrespect."

"None taken," said Sylvia, raising her hands. "You're not wrong."

"Part of it has to do with that Jerome fella," Kristen guessed. "Things haven't been quite the same since he ransacked the GCPD. I haven't had a decent moment since then. Or ever, now that I think about it. How do you deal with it, Sylvia?"

"What do you mean?" Sylvia asked.

"How do you deal with this chaotic thing—crime must be such a common thing in your place of work," said Kristen. "What with the robberies...and especially after the police raided that Count House."

"It has nothing to do with me," said Sylvia coolly. "Just another one of those things that was going to happen eventually."

"Ever find out who tipped them off?" Kristen asked, tilting her head to the side.

"Nope," said Sylvia, drinking her first glass down to the last drop. "But rest assured, I'm tracking it."

Ed leaned in, inquisitively, "I could help if you needed a puzzle figured out."

"Ed!" Kristen said, half-joking, half-serious, "We're talking about a crime. And...and I'm sure Sylvia is more than credible to find the person herself without your help. Isn't that right, Sylvia?"

Sylvia said to Ed, "Thanks, but no thanks. I prefer things be in-house, if you don't mind."

"Well," said Lee bravely, "This is already turning out to be an interesting evening."

"Do you like your sort of business?" Kristen asked.

"What kind of a question is that?" Sylvia responded. "If I didn't like it, I wouldn't very well be doing it, would I?"

"Detective Gordon made it sound like you hadn't any choice _but_ to do it," said Kristen, gesturing to the door as though Jim would burst in. "I mean, he sounded like you were trapped."

Sylvia smirked at Lee, saying to her, "See, when I said that he might be talking badly about me, _this_ is what I was expecting."

"I doubt she meant it in a bad way," Ed offered politely.

"Well, it doesn't sound 'good'." Sylvia returned indignantly.

"You're someone who's regularly involved in criminal activites," Kristen pointed out. "This _can't_ be the first time you're hearing this conversation."

"Okay…." Lee muttered uncomfortably.

"If it wasn't for me," Sylvia said with forced calm, "Crime would be a lot more primitive."

Kristen smiled a hard smile, saying, "If it wasn't for you, I think crime would be _less_ primitive. I don't know how Gordon handles it, knowing what you're capable of and yet still acting like you're the victim. You're not the victim of the circumstance, you're a part of it."

Sylvia looked at her pointedly, before smiling sarcastically, "Well. I can certainly see why Dougherty beat the shit out of you."

"Sylvia!" Ed and Lee gasped.

"What?" Sylvia questioned. "I'm not wrong. I want nothing more than to punch her in her face."

Kristen looked affronted, for she had good reason to be.

However, Sylvia wasn't done.

"I feel like punching you in the face, but not because you're wrong—because you're absolutely correct. I'm not a victim as Jim says. But, before you go off on another wonderful tangent, Miss Kringle, perhaps you should realize that I never once said I was the victim."

"Sylvia..." Lee began in an effort to calm her down.

Sylvia continued harshly, "What's more is that I am not ' _trapped_ ' in my own design of crime—or trapped in anything, for that matter; in fact, I revel in it. And I have committed a dozen of acts that you would not be able to wrap your pretty little head around. And I'm not pissed because you're right; I'm pissed because you have to sound like you're better than anyone in this room because you cannot _believe_ how bad the crime rate is in this town. News flash, _sweetheart_. It's always been bad—I know it, because I grew up in it. But you couldn't see that until Jerome Valeska ransacked your beloved GCPD and put a fucking bullet in your captain's head."

"Liv," Ed started, placing a protective arm around Kristen.

"Now," said Sylvia, who had slowly gotten to her feet and in Kristen's face, "tell me. Are you the victim because you had to experience such trauma, or are you the creator of your own traumatic experience because you were too fucking stupid to realize that Jerome Valeska is only one of the several hundred lunatics that victimize people every single fucking day?"

Kristen cast her eyes downward, an instinct that she'd not been born with, but had learned. Probably from Flass or Dougherty. Sylvia recognized the beaten look; she'd seen it one too many times from Tiffany.

Sylvia stepped back, realizing she'd basically verbally slapped Kristen across the face.

"I'm sorry," Kristen whispered.

Sylvia looked at her broken expression. Then at Ed, who gave her a dirty look. She glanced at Lee, who tried to say something.

"This was a bad idea," Sylvia muttered. "I'm sorry."

"Sylvia..." Lee began, getting to her feet. "Sylvia, wait…"

"No. I'm sorry," said Sylvia. "I can't."

"Don't leave," said Kristen, getting quickly to her feet. "I'm sorry. It's _my_ fault."

Sylvia stared at her.

"Why the hell are _you_ apologizing to _me_?" Sylvia questioned.

Kristen shrugged, saying, "I feel like I have to."

"You don't have to apologize," said Sylvia. "It is I who must say I'm sorry. Not you. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry. Look…." She placed a gentle hand on Kristen's shoulder. "I get what you're trying to say. I'm sorry for how I reacted when you were just expressing your opinion."

"I could have said it differently," offered Kristen.

Sylvia frowned: "You've thought of every excuse that way you can make it sound like it was your fault, haven't you?"

Kristen looked at her, surprised.

"If it's not _your_ fault," said Sylvia sternly, "it's _not_ your fault. Simple. Is all."

Kristen looked at her reproachfully.

"I have a friend who's a battered wife," said Sylvia lightly. "You have her same habits."

Kristen smiled in spite of herself saying, "Well, you're perceptive, I give you that."

"Please, stay." Lee offered.

"I really can't," said Sylvia. "Once Jim comes, I think the entire roof will fall off the house. Mixing police work and crime is like water and oil."

Kristen thought for a second, saying, "They don't mix."

"My point exactly," said Sylvia smartly.

She glanced at her phone; there was a voicemail from Oswald. She hadn't even heard her phone ring!

"Is that work calling?" Ed asked, gesturing to the phone.

"More or less," said Sylvia. "Maybe another time, yeah?"

"Sure, sure," said Lee, nodding earnestly.

"Thanks." Sylvia said, smiling. "I'll see you later."

She hugged Ed, who returned it, as well as Lee and Kristen.

"Phew," sighed Lee. "Anyone else ready for their first glass of wine!"

Both Ed and Kristen raised their hands.


	29. People Notice

Chapter Twenty-Nine: People Notice

Author's Note: Thank you for your lovely reviews! It makes me happy to see that email pop up in my box!

* * *

The mansion was quiet.

No foot falls. No murmurs.

Just quiet.

Sylvia placed her purse on the coffee table in the living room, steadily looking around. Odds are, Tiffany and Henry had gone back to the club, now that Tiffany was a little more healed after the Galavan ambush. Dagger and Chilly were patrolling the outside of the mansion—she'd seen them on her way in.

But still….so quiet. And if things were as they seemed, why did Sylvia's heart race too quickly, and her breathing become shallow? The hairs on her neck stood on end. And she listened closely, not moving her body but only her eyes.

It _was_ abnormally quiet, and oddly dark.

Suddenly, two large tree-trunk arms wrapped around her shoulders, locking her in. Sylvia inhaled sharply. Who was it—she didn't know, but she would give them hell to pay for coming up behind her like that.

She made a hard kick to their shins—they grunted, but didn't let her go.

She and the intruder were struggling, trying to get the upper hand. This fella had a strong sense of balance; he wouldn't be thrown off easily. Instead, she'd counteract his weight with her own.

Nimble and quick, Sylvia ducked, slipping out of the man's grasp, and then while he was disarmed, she grabbed his shoulders and brought his face down on her knee, hard.

And again.

And again.

He grunted, fell over, holding his nose. Panting, Sylvia darted towards the nearest light switch, turned it on, and pulled her gun out, aiming it at the intruder.

With the light on, Sylvia's fear was extinguished when she saw who it was.

It was Mr. Bell.

He groaned, sitting upright, and rubbed his ankle where she'd hit him initially; blood ran profusely down his lip, nose, and chin from where she'd struck him with her knee. Seeing him, Sylvia scoffed, lowering her gun.

"What the _hell_ were you trying to accomplish?" Sylvia inquired indignantly.

Mr. Bell stood to his feet, staggering a little, to sit in favor of the couch. He rubbed his jaw and despite the blood that tainted his otherwise white teeth, he grinned.

"It was a test," said Mr. Bell.

"A test?" Sylvia said skeptically.

"Yes."

"Did I pass?"

"With flying colors," he chortled. "But that still begs me to wonder just why exactly you've been missing our lessons."

"First things first," said Sylvia. "Where's Oswald?"

"He retired early," Mr. Bell informed, gesturing to the Meeting Room. His eyes flickered around her. "Where's Gabriel?"

"After I came home, I sent him to the bar. He earned it."

"I don't see his car."

"He took mine."

"Why on Earth did he take yours?"

"Well, Mr. Bell, this provides a perfect segue. I need your help," said Sylvia, rattling Gabe's car keys in her hand. "On my way to my dinner date with my brother and his girlfriend, a half-wit tried to rob me. I have him in Gabe's trunk, ready to question." She grinned, offering him the keys. "You used to interrogate terrorists, right?"

Mr. Bell rubbed his face with the back of his hand, sniffling the rest of the blood that had started to dry.

"You're right." He confirmed. "But I've not been that man for quite some time."

A glint of mischief twinkled in Sylvia's eyes as she said mischievously, "You have a look of nostalgia, Mr. Bell. You _miss_ those days."

"They _were_ good days."

"And you miss them," said Sylvia knowingly. "It's why you like our lessons so much, and..." (She rattled the car keys.) "...From the stories you've told me, Mr. Bell, you miss those days very much, and you wish you could relive them once again."

A sentimental smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Proving that she was right.

"Want to have a go then?" Sylvia asked, gesturing to the door with her thumb. "The fella's in the trunk right now."

"Knocked out?"

"Initially, yeah, but it's been a couple of hours. He should be wide awake. _Sc_ _reaming_ , in fact."

Practically, Mr. Bell raised his head, but lowered his eyelids, peering at Sylvia from underneath him. Eager, but logical.

He said in such a matter-of-fact tone, "What do you want to get out of him?"

"Anything and everything, Mr. Bell," said Sylvia, grinning widely. "For all we know, he knows shit. Just a common, garden-variety thief who saw who I was and wanted some money. Or, best-case scenario, he knows what Galavan's aim is and we'll find some useful information to use against the prick that's holding my mother-in-law hostage. So, what do you say, Mr. Bell? You up for some midnight fun?"

Mr. Bell gathered himself to a stand, smiling as he said lowly, "It would be my absolute pleasure, milady."

"Figured you'd say that," said Sylvia. She tossed Mr. Bell the keys; he caught them. "He's in the trunk. You can bring him inside, if you want, or leave him be. Doesn't really matter to me."

Mr. Bell strode towards the door, then curiously stopped as he turned to her.

"Where _have_ you been going these past few days?" Mr. Bell asked.

She gave him a stern expression.

"I know my place," he said lightly. "I know what I can ask and what I ought not to inquire, but the rest of the staff are starting to doubt your allegiance."

"Let them doubt," said Sylvia coolly.

"Is that wise?"

"Probably not," she said, shrugging. "But I can assure you that I've not been banging anyone behind Oswald's back, and I've not turned against him. What I am planning is something that will keep us safe, Mr. Bell. And that's all you need to know. At least, for now."

"Of course," he said, nodding. "I was just making sure you are not being threatened, is all."

"Galavan has my mother-in-law locked in some cage," said Sylvia darkly. "I'm threatened every day."

Mr. Bell touched her shoulder comfortingly then he said softly, "I will do what I can to find out what he knows about Galavan, if anything." And then he left through the door.

Sylvia watched after him, then she moved throughout the house just as quietly as she'd moved before. She took a shower, applied vanilla lotion, and an hour later, she walked into the bedroom where she saw Oswald sleeping under the blankets. His soft whimpers from under the sheets made Sylvia curious; she sat on the edge of the bed, watching him stir uncomfortably, like he was having a bad dream.

She smiled in spite of herself—he reminded her of a puppy, having a nightmare. All wriggly and pitiful. Sylvia crawled into bed, sitting up; she gathered his shoulders and moved him to her so his head laid in her lap.

Gently, softly, Sylvia sang the sweet lullaby:

" _The fire has gone out, wet from snow above_

 _But nothing will warm me more, than my, my mother's love._

 _I light another candle, dry the tears from my face._

 _Nothing can protect me more than my mother's warm embrace_

 _The path ahead is dark, so dark I cannot see_

 _But I will not fear 'cause my mother looks over me."_

Oswald slowly stopped wriggling, his body relaxed, and he let out a sigh of relief.

"Sweet baby," Sylvia murmured, smiling at him.

It was the same lullaby that Gertrud had sang to her while she was in a coma, and it'd woken her up. Seeing as it was the same that she had sung to Oswald when he wanted to feel better, Sylvia felt very accomplished in helping him rest.

Sylvia took her phone from the back of her pocket, glancing at the screen. Oswald had left her a voicemail—that hadn't been a simple fib to get out of the most awkward double dinner date known to man. As the subject of her affections returned to a deeper sleep than in the state she had found him, Sylvia placed the phone to her ear and listened to the voicemail.

"Pigeon, I...I don't know why I called you," Oswald's voice sounded not exactly slurred, but like he'd been drinking a _lot._ "I don't even know what I was going to say if I did. I just like hearing your voice, even if it's telling me to leave a message after the tone." (There was some fumbling around in the background, rustling of clothes...was he getting ready for bed?) "I love you, Sylvia. You've been gone….wait, wait, someone's at the door…."

Sylvia listened closely, her heart rate picked up a sec.

Then she heard him say "For fuck's sake, what is it, Butch? I told you I was turning in for the night…" Then there was discussion that Sylvia couldn't hear, and after whatever Butch said, Oswald sighed in resignation, saying in the message, "I'll see you when you get home, Sylvia. I love you."

Sylvia placed her phone back in her jeans. For the first time in their relationship, Oswald had drunk-dialed her. And that was just too fucking adorable.

Who knew how long he'd been under the sheets, rustling the covers in this nightmare. But, since his over all disposition had changed to one of tranquility, Sylvia slowly moved him from her lap, and placed the covers around him, tucking him in. As she kissed his cheek, a soft tapping of knuckles on the door frame grabbed her attention.

It was Butch.

He gestured for her to come over; Sylvia nodded. He stepped aside from the doorway as she came over the threshold, silently closing the door with a soft _click_.

"What?" Sylvia asked lightly.

"We need to talk."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows saying, "Talk about what?"

He gestured for her to follow. She did so, assuming that this conversation was better left out of earshot from a sleeping Penguin. As she followed him into the Meeting Room, he spoke.

"Galavan's sister came by," said Butch, glancing at the door from where they'd just come.

"For what reason?"

"She gave Penguin some addresses to burn to the ground," said Butch.

"Arson?" Sylvia quipped; she sat down in a chair, running her hands over the table. "How many places?"

"Five."

"Five in one night?"

Butch nodded.

"Wow," said Sylvia coolly. "She's ambitious. Have anyone in mind that could do the deed right the first time?"

"I do," said Butch.

"Know where they live?"

"Yeah."

"Then why do you need my help?" asked Sylvia, before relaxing back into the chair. "You seem to know what you're doing; you don't need a babysitter."

"I'm not asking for your help," said Butch, slightly irritated. "I said we need to talk."

"Fine," said Sylvia, gesturing to him. "Talk."

Butch seemed to register that Sylvia was capping her own annoyance with Galavan and his sister. Her snippy remarks and standoffish responses were a great hint to the fact, but despite everything, he could understand that sort of stress that she was under. Butch placed his hands on the back of a chair, knuckles tightened, as he stood opposite of her.

"Has the boss been showing signs of paranoia around you?" asked Butch.

"No more than he normally shows," said Sylvia. "Galavan has his mother locked up like some sort of animal. Count House was raided and we don't know who it was that did it. I say he's got plenty of stuff to be paranoid about, but I'm guessing you're talking about something more than that."

She leaned forward, grabbing the bowl of peanuts that were on the table, and pulled them to her; she took a few and munched on them.

"He seems extra paranoid—more than usual," said Butch, glancing at her handful of peanuts and her in general. "He mentioned having trouble finding a trustworthy arsonist."

"But you said you knew someone who'd get the job done," Sylvia reminded. "So, ergo, you must have someone you know is trustworthy."

"I know where they are," he said, slightly defensive. "I just doubt they'll welcome me with open arms."

"Why's that?"

"They're Fish loyalists."

"Fish is dead."

"I know that," said Butch, giving her a look. "But they're hoping she'll come back."

"She _might_ come back."

"I was there," said Butch. "She's not coming back."

"Well, I was there too," said Sylvia pointedly. "And Fish is a fighter. If she comes back, she'll do it in a way none of us will be able to ignore her. Personally, Butchy-ole-pal, I think you're hoping she _will_ come back. Being in love with her, that sort of thing."

Butch sighed, closing his eyes.

"So, these people you're wanting to hire," said Sylvia smoothly. "They're Fish Loyalists. So find someone who is close to them, and get them to vouch for you."

"I have someone in mind."

"So find him."

"Her."

"So find _her_ ," said Sylvia, gesturing to Butch apathetically. "You don't need my permission to do your job."

"I'm not asking your permission."

"Then what are we talking about here?" She questioned tiredly. "Because so far" (She counted on her fingers) "We've talked about Tabitha, the Arson job, paranoia, Fish, and so far this conversation seems like it could have been a phone call or an email. So, Butch—tell me what's on your mind..."

"It's Selina Kyle."

"The kid?" Sylvia questioned incredulously.

"She's more than a kid."

"Oh, I know. I believe you. But she lives here and there—last I saw her, she was living at Barbara Kean's place, but that's been some several months ago. Find her in the Narrows, I guess."

"She won't greet me with open arms, you know."

"So give her a reason _to_ welcome you," said Sylvia, popping another peanut in her mouth. "Money seems to be a good motivator for people. Bring enough though."

"Point taken."

"So, do you wanna tell me why we're really talking?" Sylvia asked, getting to her feet.

Butch glanced at her curiously saying, "What other reason could there be?"

"Come on, Butch. There's more to you than what meets the eye. You're not nearly as thick as you seem, so lay it on me. What's really going on in that skull of yours?" Sylvia questioned, leaning forward and bracing her hands on the edges of the long table.

Butch narrowed his eyes at her, like he was suspicious of her possibly having mind-reading abilities. Then again, it wasn't lost on him that she was really good at reading people.

"How are you doing?" Butch asked lightly.

Taken aback, Sylvia stared at him.

"In what aspect?" Sylvia questioned.

"I mean it," said Butch, gesticulating to her sincerely. "You know. How are you doing?"

Sylvia cracked a grin saying, "As well as possible."

"You seem calm about this whole thing..."

"What thing?"

"Starting fires, killing mayoral candidates.." Butch said lazily.

"Arson isn't a big deal for me. I lit myself on fire during a performance," Sylvia reminded. "I like fire. I find it odd that you've not asked _me_ to destroy any of these addresses. Wouldn't be hard. Five places in one night is a Party Night. It could take four people to do it, in one night, but personally, give me about 12 hours, and they'll be smoldering."

"Penguin specifically said you're not on the list to hire," said Butch cautiously.

"Typical," She sighed. "I'm not surprised."

"He's protecting you."

"I know," said Sylvia smoothly. "I'm well aware. And in return, I'm doing my best to protect him."

"Is that why you've been sneaking off every morning for the past week?" Butch questioned, quirking an eyebrow.

Sylvia smirked, saying, "I guess I've not done very well at sneaking off to anywhere. A lot of people seemed to have noticed."

"Well, you're the Queen of Gotham," said Butch practically. "People don't care to see a peasant walking out of the mansion at 4 in the morning, but you can be rest assured we notice when royalty leaves that early."

Sylvia crossed her arms and leaned her back against the fireplace.

Butch looked at her more closely.

"You're doing something," said Butch knowingly. "Plotting."

"I'm doing nothing of the sort."

"Come on, Liv. I know you."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, turning so she faced the fireplace; its embers had long been burned down to its soft, flickering glow but she stared into its molten depths as though it would give her the subtle distraction she needed.

Butch moved around the table, and leaned a shoulder against the fireplace.

"I know you back when you were working for Fish," He reminded her. "You weren't good about hiding stuff then, and you're not doing a good job at hiding stuff now. You've been up to something—we all can see it...even that little umbrella boy of yours—what's his name..."

"Josh," Sylvia said coolly.

"Yeah," said Butch, gesturing to her. "He knows something too. But he won't say nothing—he's pretty committed to hiding whatever it is you've got going on. I can help you, if you want."

"You're brainwashed."

Butch looked offended, saying, "I gotta do whatever Penguin says, sure. But where you're concerned..." He didn't finish, but Sylvia's expression softened.

He touched her shoulder.

"Tell me what you're up to," said Butch earnestly. At Sylvia's hesitation, he added, "Your husband" (he glanced warily at the bedroom door before turning back to look at her) "is an emotional wreck. He's paranoid, and looks like an egg that's ready to crack. You don't trust your people, so how 'bout you start trusting someone who knows a little something about playing a hand?"

She considered his words.

"I'm keeping us safe," said Sylvia quietly. "If I can't tear out Tabitha's eyes or kill her brother, I'll play Defense. Since, obviously, Offense is out of the question. And I can't sit here and do nothing while Galavan does whatever he wants."

Butch smiled sadly, saying, "I can see you're trying."

"Trying is half the battle," said Sylvia. "'Doing' is what wins the war."

"And what are you 'doing' every morning?" asked Butch.

"Building."

"Building what."

"Safe houses," she admitted, lowering her arms. "I'm providing means of a safe haven."

"This mansion is your safe haven," said Butch confusedly. "You have guards at every door, inside and out."

"But people come in whenever they feel like it—Tabitha, included," said Sylvia darkly. "That's not a safe haven, Butch. That's business."

"Wanna tell me where they are?" Butch asked, furrowing his eyebrows. "I can probably make them safer. Get a few people out there to watch these places for you."

"No."

Butch looked surprised.

Sylvia smiled apologetically saying, "No one knows where these safe houses are, except for me. Not even Oswald knows. And, for the time being, I want it to stay that way. Galavan is taking steps to control this city—the Underworld, the GCPD—and if I can't keep this empire safe, I need to make sure there is at least one place Oz and I can go to if it crumbles beneath our feet."

"And you think that your people would betray you—give your hideout away?" Butch inquired kindly.

"I don't know what they would do," said Sylvia.

"And, I'm guessing, you can't trust _me_? That's what it sounds like you're saying."

"You're right. I can't trust you. Not completely."

"But you've seen it—I have to do whatever Penguin says. So I can't betray you."

"You've been brainwashed," said Sylvia, smiling at him. "If someone can fix you, Butch, someone _else_ can fix you again. And not for the best."

"It sounds like you're becoming paranoid too," Butch uttered.

"Call it 'overt caution'," Sylvia remarked, grinning in spite of herself. "If there's one thing I can pride myself on, it's _that_. Now, if I were you, I'd find Selina, find your fire bugs, and then get to work."

Butch started to leave, but he turned on his foot.

"Liv."

Sylvia looked at him expectantly. He seemed to reconsider after a moment, saying, "Never mind."

He walked off. Sylvia looked after him, curious.


	30. A Run-In With Capt Barnes

Chapter Thirty: A Run-In With Captain Barnes

* * *

"Stay on your guard, Sylvia!" Mr. Bell shouted.

Sylvia glared up at him from her back, having been tripped five times in a single go. She wore black sweats and a gray tank top; he wore all black, sweats from head to toe.

"If you'd shut up," said Sylvia darkly, "I would be able to concentrate."

"Oh please, one comment about your mother, and you let your anger take over," said Mr. Bell curtly. He held out a hand to her; grumpily, she took it.

"My mother wasn't a saint; that was a given, but she was certainly not a whore."

"I was _trying_ to provoke you," said Mr. Bell, smirking at her. "And, clearly, it worked."

"Shut up."

"Make me," said Mr. Bell, shaking his fists at her. "Put me in my place, Sylvia."

Sylvia snarled, and ran towards him, wicked fast.

She jumped, climbing him like a tree, nimble and quick.

Her thighs constricted around his neck, turning his face purple; Mr. Bell maintained a certain calm though, and with time, grabbed her legs and threw her off him.

Sylvia grunted when her face met the concrete.

"You may be spry," said Mr. Bell, rubbing his neck. "But if you do the same move, people will pick up on it, and learn to get out of that python grip of yours."

He suddenly lunged for her; Sylvia rolled away on her side, getting to her feet.

"Use my weight against me," Mr. Bell ordered. "I move slower than you."

"You move faster," Sylvia corrected. "And for the record, _you've_ been trained."

"That's just an excuse!" Mr. Bell laughed. "I've shown you what I know, Sylvia, and you're lacking in discipline. You want to put me down, you'll find the will. You'll find the way. Now, do as I say, and _put_ " (he grabbed her by the hair, yanking it back) "ME" (his other hand grabbed her throat) "DOWN!"

He lifted her up, all the way up so her feet dangled. Sylvia's fingernails dug into wrist; her face started turning colors, and her feet kicked.

"If you don't fight me," Mr. Bell threatened, "I _will_ kill you."

Sylvia whimpered, "I can't breathe."

"Don't think about that. Think about escape."

"I can't—I can't breathe!" Sylvia gasped; she clawed at his wrist.

"THINK!" Mr. Bell ordered.

Sylvia looked at him fearfully. He held her up, watching her writhe in pain. She was a baited worm on a hook; he was the fisherman. How could she possibly get out of this mess!

Mr. Bell's face flickered with disappointment. That was until she let go of him and brought her fingers to his eyes; she plunged her thumbnails into them; immediately, he let her go. When he did, he stumbled; Sylvia grabbed his legs so he tripped and fell onto his back.

Sylvia gasped for air, inhaling deeply.

But she'd learned.

So she didn't stop there.

She straddled his chest. Then started pummeling his face.

His face was a bloodied pulp by the time she finished, and tore herself away. Sylvia stood weakly to her feet, breathing heavily.

Mr. Bell groaned, slowly sitting up.

"Better," he praised. "Much...much better."

"Glad you think so," she panted.

She left him sitting on the concrete pad, walking through the mansion. She showered then stepped out, wearing a knee-length black skirt, and an off-the-shoulder black, long-sleeve shirt. As she came through the living room, her heeled boots clicked across the linoleum. Sylvia pulled her hair in a long ponytail, holding down the flyaways with a black headband. Winged eyeliner, black mascara, and aqua eyeshadow for the eyes; nude pink balm for the lips.

The Merc had been hit, raided—hence the reason why Jim had come late to the double-date. Her people wouldn't be interrogated in regards to the weapon-house, but she was certain Jim would be coming to her for answers. The arsonists that Butch had found had done their job beautifully, so well that they'd attracted the attention of the GCPD.

As a premise, Sylvia made strawberry cheesecake bites, placing them in a container with a red bow. As she strolled to her car, she saw Josh sitting on the step of the mansion, waiting for her. She tilted her head for him to follow; he did so with a large smile on his face.

On the way there, Josh glanced at Sylvia's neck. There was a considerable red bruise from where Mr. Bell had held her up by the throat, but Sylvia looked as though it was nothing more than a scratch.

"So..." said Josh slowly. "That was something of a lesson between you two."

"Yes, it was."

"Why was it so much more...I don't know….brutal?" asked Josh.

Sylvia returned gently, "It's just a lesson. No more brutal than the others."

"But he almost killed you."

"Yes, he did."

Josh blinked: "And that doesn't scare you?"

"Being on the brink of death makes a person realize just how strong they really are," said Sylvia lightly. "It's amazing how strong you become when being 'strong' is all you have left. And Mr. Bell knows that. He's been in that situation several times."

"But…He almost killed you."

"Yes. But he didn't," said Sylvia, smiling at him. "And _that's_ the lesson."

"Why are you learning all of this?" asked Josh.

"To better myself."

"The martial arts, the sign language he's been teaching you, building safe houses," Josh mumbled. "Sounds like you're becoming paranoid, Sylvia."

"I want to be prepared." She returned. "You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs."

"But this isn't going overboard?" Josh asked, glancing at the bruise on her neck. "You're doing a lot to yourself. Aren't you afraid that one day you'll go too far with this preparation stuff and kill yourself?"

Sylvia nodded: "It's occurred to me before, but...I think the price might be worth it."

"What's your endgame?"

She looked at him, smiling gently when she saw that he was worried.

"I want to be my own weapon," said Sylvia. "I don't want to rely on guns, on minions, on anyone but myself."

"Is it because of Galavan?"

"No, son. This has been a goal of mine for a long time. Before Penguin became King of Gotham. Once I started working for Fish, I knew what I wanted."

"And what is that?"

"I never want to be someone's weakness," said Sylvia, glaring inadvertently at the traffic. "I never want to be used as leverage, blackmail, or anything like that."

"People say that you're Penguin's weakness," Josh mumbled.

"Maybe so...but you don't see _me_ trapped in a cage." Sylvia uttered darkly.

"You want to make it so Penguin doesn't have to worry about you being used against him?" Josh asked, looking at her curiously.

"Precisely. And so far, I think I've been pretty successful."

"One would think."

Sylvia glanced at Josh before returning her eyes to the traffic. His somber tone struck her. She parked at the GCPD station, turning off the ignition, then looked at him completely.

"Got something on your mind, champ?" Sylvia asked.

Josh looked at her, hesitating. Then he said quietly, "You're Penguin's wife, Sylvia. We _all_ see the way he looks at you….and the way you look at him. You don't want to be the reason for his downfall, but you have the power _to_ be his downfall. If you left him, you'd weaken him in a way no enemy like Galavan could ever weaken him. You'd break him."

Josh shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"And I think Penguin _knows_ you have that power..." Josh uttered. "In a way, you being with him makes him weak already. So wouldn't it be best to just...I don't know...cut ties, and cut off the weak link before it happens?"

Sylvia patted his shoulder.

"You don't say much, kid," she said. "But when you do, it's worth listening to. You see a lot. And you're right, I suppose. But what I am to Oswald, he is to me as well."

Josh nodded.

"Do you want to come in with me?" asked Sylvia.

"Nah, I'm fine here."

"As you prefer," Sylvia noted, nodding to him. "Lock the doors, don't talk to strangers—that sort of deal."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Key's still in the ignition if you want to listen to music."

"Thanks!"

* * *

Sylvia strolled into the GCPD; the Desk Sergeant there didn't even have to ask. After taking the strawberry cheesecake bites, he pointed up at the balcony where Jim was sitting. Sylvia thanked him as usual and headed upstairs.

She didn't get very far.

"You."

Sylvia turned to see Captain Nathaniel Barnes, in the flesh. He was a wide man, probably because of both fat and muscle. His head was shiny and bald, and his eyes were icy—or maybe that's because he was glaring daggers at her.

"Me." Sylvia returned, gesturing to herself. "Hiya, Cap'n."

"You have _some_ nerve walking in here," said Barnes, looking at her coldly. "What's your business?"

"Family." Sylvia returned, pointing to Jim who stood on the balcony; sensing the tension, Jim was already on his way down.

Barnes said harshly, "You're the _Penguin's_ wife."

"I'm also Detective Gordon's _sister_ ," said Sylvia. "I could tell you _more_ about my profile, if you want."

"Maybe, you've come to confess?"

"Confess to what?" Sylvia inquired.

"The Merc, or the fires—"

"Oh, sorry, you must have been misinformed," Sylvia noted gently, smirking at him. "I don't have anything to do with the Merc. Recently, the place has been going rogue—doesn't follow orders, play by the rules, or anything of that variation. Personally, I've been hoping you all would raid and close up that shop; it's been a pain in the ass for a few years, even when Falcone was running things."

"Captain..."

Sylvia and Barnes glanced over to see Jim. He made his way over, just in record time; it looked as though Barnes would detonate. In a way to smooth things over, Jim did introductions.

"Captain, this is Sylvia. Sylvia, Captain Barnes..."

"I know who he is," Sylvia told Jim, eyes flickering to Barnes. "Nice raid on the Count House, Captain."

"Now, I _know_ you're in the loop on that one," said Barnes, wagging a finger at her. "That's Penguin's territory. So, if I've been told correctly, that's _your_ territory too."

Sylvia shrugged saying, "So what if it is?"

That set Barnes off like a nuke.

" _So what if it is_?" Barnes growled. "That means you're an accomplice! That means you're _guilty_! And we could interrogate you—"

"Well," scoffed Sylvia. "Technically, I think that's what you've been doing since we met…" She looked at Jim. "Do you care if we talk for a moment?"

Jim nodded, glancing at Barnes.

"Detective Gordon—"

"I've got it, Cap. Trust me."

Barnes rolled his eyes deeply before Jim took her arm and pulled her into an empty office. He closed the door, then offered her a seat; Sylvia sat.

"Already making waves," said Jim, shaking his head. "Vee, you gotta be careful."

"Well, _he_ came up to me," she reminded. "And not so politely, either."

"Well, he knows what you are."

"I'm flattered."

Jim gave her a stern look while Sylvia shrugged, holding her hands up in the air in surrender. He sat at the desk; Sylvia looked at him from across the furniture.

"Why'd you come here?" asked Jim tiredly.

"To apologize."

"For?"

"I left the dinner before you arrived," said Sylvia smoothly. "After that spectacular show of begging you did for me, I felt bad for leaving the way I did."

"Yeah," said Jim slowly. "Lee mentioned you were explosive."

"Kristen was nosy."

"We all know what you do for a living," said Jim. "God knows you've tried getting it through my head for the past couple of years. People get it. _I_ get it. I accept your apology."

Sylvia smirked: "You're awfully quick to forgive. I'm guessing things are going well for you here?"

"Captain gets things done."

"That, he does. That, he does," Sylvia agreed.

"I'll ask because I'm pretty sure Captain Barnes will ask it of me later down the road," said Jim. "Do you have anything to do with the fires happening around Gotham?"

"No. I don't. And I don't know who's doing them either."

"They're all connected to Wayne Enterprises," Jim informed sternly. "And they were all done in one night. And who's to say that they're finished?"

"Who is to say, indeed." Sylvia agreed. "I don't know who's starting the fires."

"No leads?"

"None at all."

"Are you lying to me?"

"Am I being interrogated?" Sylvia questioned darkly. "You know how much I despise that tone of yours."

Jim leaned forward, interlacing his fingers.

"Sylvia," he said, just as darkly. "Are _you_ starting the fires?"

"I'm not."

"Promise?"

"Promise." Sylvia swore, putting her hand over her heart. "But I like how you think it was me. That's almost flattering."

"Other people assume it was you too." Jim grumbled. "It's hard to defend you these days, what with you working with Penguin."

"Rumors are rumors," said Sylvia. "And if you believe them over your own sister, well, I feel pretty sorry for you."

"I don't believe them."

"Good."

"But..." Jim spoke sadly. "Whomever _is_ starting these fires just burned one of our own."

Sylvia's amused grin slacked. Her eyebrows knitted together in concern.

"Figuratively speaking or…."

"Literally," said Jim through gritted teeth. "He passed away this morning at 5:23."

"I'm sorry, Jimmy."

Jim accepted her condolences before continuing, "And I need your help."

"With?"

"This arsonist," said Jim coolly. "They had a flamethrower—and it's clear they will not stop. I've asked someone to help, someone I know who will back our play. We have to do what is necessary to end this thing—we need everything at our disposal."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself," said Sylvia, nodding to his odd disposition. "Like when you were trying to tell me that going after Barker would be the only way you could become a detective again."

"You know me," Jim uttered. "You know I don't do endorsements."

"I do," she said, nodding. "Politics and police business don't mix. Much like crime and police—but you sound guilty. What'd you do?"

Jim sighed deeply, "I'm endorsing Theo Galavan for mayor."

Sylvia's jaw tightened.

"You're allying the GCPD with _him_?" Sylvia asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jim tilted his head curiously, noticing her change of mood.

"You don't like him?" Jim asked.

"What's not to like," she returned sarcastically. "He's rich, stood up to Jerome, and pretty much kissed every ass in this goddam town. What's _not_ to like, huh?"

Jim crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at his sister.

"You don't like him." Jim stated knowingly. "That's clear enough to me. Why?"

"I just don't."

"Is that all?"

"Call it a 'clash of personalities', but that's all. Obviously, _you_ disagree..."

"I do, but that's just disagreement. If that's all, we'd call it a day. But that doesn't explain the feeling I have that makes me think you're lying to me," Jim stated sternly; he stood to his feet, rounded the desk and leaned against it.

"Well, your gut feeling is wrong. I just don't like Theo Galavan. He makes my blood boil, seeing him."

"There's more to that, I bet," said Jim. "And your reason for not liking him isn't 'just'. There's a reason you don't. Wanna tell me that reason?"

"If I did, you would not believe me. And if I did, you wouldn't be _able_ to believe me."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I have no proof," said Sylvia, throwing her hands up. "I have no proof for the reason why I despise that man. If I told you the reason for why I don't like him, you would not believe me. You wouldn't even _think_ about believing me. And you wouldn't want to. My opinion of him is not popular; in fact, it contradicts everything this town has been led to believe."

"As your brother," he said gently, "I want you to tell me why you don't like him. You're good at reading people, Vee. You _know_ people, without even knowing them."

Sylvia shrugged. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. And Jim knew, at that point, that he wouldn't be getting anything else out of her. He nodded, dismissing her. Sylvia stood.

"For what it's worth," said Sylvia coolly. "If you're feeling like you've hit a wall in your investigation, I have a perp of my own. He followed me for a few miles; I caught him, questioned him—nothing came of use."

Jim gaped, "When did this happen?"

"I caught him before I came to Lee's for that double-date," said Sylvia, nonchalant.

"And you still have him in your custody?" asked Jim.

"Yeah. You can have him if you want. Book him, arrest him, do whatever. I told Gabe to drive the half-wit to the GCPD; I'm guessing he'll be here around the afternoon. This..." (She handed him a folded up piece of paper) "is all that he had on him. It's a receipt for a gun, but he didn't have any ID: no driver's license, nothing to identify him. He had a gun in his left pocket; Gabe will have it. So when he walks in, please don't shoot him."

Jim stared at her. Sylvia smiled.

"You're starting to become one of them."

"A gangster?" Sylvia assumed. "Eh, sure. It's not as fun as I thought it was when I was a kid, but it certainly has its moments."

Jim walked towards her, just enough that they had a foot between them.

"Is that person still threatening you?" Jim uttered darkly.

"Always," said Sylvia. She leaned forward, and kissed her brother on the cheek.

"And you still won't tell me his name."

"Can't."

"So you keep saying. What happened there?" Jim asked, glancing at her bruise.

"Wrestling," she said.

"Wrestling with whom?"

"One of my people."

"I hope everything is okay," Jim said, glancing at it again. "Do you need a doctor?"

"No, it's fine," said Sylvia. "Things get a little rough in the house—everyone needs an outlet."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Peachy keen, jelly bean," she returned, grinning. "Don't worry about me."

"You know I will."

"I know you will," Sylvia agreed. "But maybe you should worry more about your captain. He looks like a bomb waiting to go off. I'll see you later, Slim-Jim."

She walked out of the office, waving at Ed who waved back from the stairs before leaving the GCPD station. It was always an event.


	31. Take Me Instead

Chapter Thirty-One: Take Me Instead

* * *

After visiting her brother and having that _lovely_ run-in with the Captain, Sylvia visited her club, _Lean on Vee's_. She'd admittedly not been there as often as she should have, due to the obvious. But being inside the club now made her feel more relaxed. Living at the mansion did not feel completely like home—it still had the presence of Falcone embodied within.

This club, however, was hers.

Sylvia stood on the stage, smiling at the familiar faces of her patrons. They had become regulars there, and she recognized their faces, knew their names, and even their families. Her servers, Tiffany, Henry, and Josh were in the back, talking idly while Dagger and Chilly stood at the front doors, facing her.

She tapped the mic.

Everyone quieted, their eyes lifting to hers.

"Good Evening, everyone," she greeted.

They responded in easy-going murmurs.

"Today is a special day," Sylvia said lightly. "It marks the anniversary of not just the establishment of _Lean on Vee's_ , but also the day when all of you" (she extended her hands to them endearingly) "became a part of me" (she brought her hands to herself). "As many of you know, I wasn't always the outspoken lark that I am now, and that said, I think everyone can agree that with time, things change. Am I right?"

People nodded vigorously; the more drunken peeps laughed in unnatural high pitches, but were shushed by their counterparts when the time of laughing had passed.

Sylvia grinned beautifully in the microphone.

"So," she continued, "to honor this occasion—so to speak—I am going to start the night off with some Karaoke. Everyone is free to come on stage and sing whatever song they want. Keep the Christmas songs at a minimum, it's not the holidays just yet, although they are around the corner. Tell me, has anyone started their shopping? Raise your hand if you have!"

No one raised their hands.

"Good," said Sylvia, grinning. "So, we understand each other."

Chuckles heard from the crowd.

She turned to the violinists that had been sitting in the back.

"Thank you, boys. You can take the evening off—we'll be using a boombox for the rest of the night. You can put your instruments in the back, if you want. The door locks. And, please, have a round on me," said Sylvia, smiling at them gracefully.

"Thank you," the violinists and instrumentalists thanked her five times over.

She waved them away. Sylvia placed the microphone at the end of the stage, and held her hands out once more. She spoke with her normal voice, although it was louder to compensate for the lack of the microphone; she didn't have to speak too loudly since mostly everyone was quiet, respectfully so.

"Everyone, come up as you like," said Sylvia. "And let's keep this shin-dig clean, all right? No hecklers in the crowd—I'm talking to _you_ , Henry!" (From behind the bar counter, Henry looked up and raised his eyebrows innocently as the contenders glanced around and laughed at his surprise.) "Everyone, have fun!"

Sylvia stepped off the stage in her glossy white, 5-inch heels; her ocean-blue dress trailed behind her. Uncommon to her usual routine, her ginger hair was pulled into a French braid, sitting on her right shoulder. Aside from winged eyeliner, she wore no other make-up. As she strode through the crowd, the familiar patrons happily thanked her for their drinks as most of them were served on the House; she gracefully moved through the crowd, taking a seat at the bar where Henry, Tiffany, and Josh met her at the corner edge of the counter.

"You're being pretty generous," said Henry, smirking at her.

"No more than I usually am," said Sylvia. "Gotta give these people something to look forward to—even if it's only for a night."

"You look nice," Josh mumbled, smiling shyly at her.

"Yeah," said Tiffany. "More than usual. The anniversary must mean something to you."

"Not much," said Sylvia innocently. "But it _has_ been a little over a year since I started running things."

"Guess it's a good thing we've been saving up, huh?" Tiffany joked. "All that extra revenue—I guess we could afford to spend it on ourselves."

" _You_ can, and I insist you do," said Sylvia, tapping the surface of the table closest to her. "I'm not drinking tonight."

"Why not?"

"I have to keep my wits about me."

"What happened?" asked Tiffany. "Has something gone wrong?"

"No. It's more or less if something goes right." Sylvia admitted.

"Things are going pretty great," Henry agreed. "Perhaps we shouldn't be _too_ generous."

"Don't be ridiculous," Tiffany cooed. "People need a day off. If people stay tense too long, they start walking on egg shells, and no one wants to do that."

"You would know, huh, babe?" Henry returned sympathetically.

"More than anyone," Tiffany concurred, nodding. In spite of her past abuse, it seemed to make her down-to-earth than weak these days and for this, Sylvia was grateful.

Tiffany was finally starting to see her worth. And that was a victory. That was worth celebrating. Henry kissed her cheek, then her ear; Tiffany returned the kiss to his mouth and the make-out started without really even starting. Sylvia cleared her throat, excusing herself. Josh followed her modestly, hoping to get out of that awkward circle while he still had the chance.

"Vee-Vee!"

Sylvia turned, eyebrow raised when she heard the name, and smiled when Freda and Marcy headed towards her. Like before, they wore the same clothes. Marcy's hair color had changed from the Cruella DeVil act; this month, she sported a kind of neon lavender with an aquamarine chunking. She reminded Sylvia of an aquarium with colorful decorations and foliage.

Freda hugged her left while Marcy hugged her right. They both wore red leggings and blue holster tops. Like twins.

"We're gonna sing Karaoke!" Marcy said excitedly.

"Then go for it—the mic's yours," Sylvia blessed.

"But we don't know what song to sing," Freda said; she sipped on her Frappuccino.

"Something melodic," Marcy suggested.

"Something bad-ass," Freda debated.

Sylvia shrugged: "Well, you don't have to sing together. You can sing individually."

They stared at her as though this was an idea that had never been visited before nor should it have ever.

"Or," said Sylvia slowly, "you can sing together."

"Yeah," said Marcy, "We're doing that."

"What if we did a couple's duet—or something awesome like—"

"—We can't sing a duet, we're not even a couple—"

"People sing duets without being couples, Marcy," said Freda.

"But how many duets do you know that _aren't_ romantic?"

"You're making this difficult."

"You're not helping, Starbucks."

"So, get your shit together," said Freda pointedly. "Because we're like fifth in line!"

Sylvia patted the two women on the shoulder.

"It looks like you two still have some stuff to discuss," she offered, "So I'll just let you all figure this one out."

Freda and Marcy started discussing this loudly and Sylvia was quick to step out of the way. She walked through the crowd, greeting people, still.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw Tabitha. The woman approached her, grinning.

"You're doing well," said Tabitha, glancing at the stage. "It's like you don't have a care in the world."

"I'm keeping up appearances," Sylvia returned, forcing her calm.

"Got a place we can talk?"

"Fine." Sylvia muttered hatefully, rolling her eyes.

She opened the door to what used to be Fish's office, stepping aside so Tabitha strutted in. When she did, Sylvia closed the door, turning to the sister with little enthusiasm.

"What do you want?" Sylvia questioned.

"So rude," Tabitha breathed. "And I thought we were going to have a polite discussion."

"Your people beat the shit out of Tiffany," said Sylvia dangerously. "You've kidnapped my mother-in-law, holding her in a place only god-knows-where. You just _waltz_ into my home and into my club like you own them, and you're making my life a living hell. And you think you and I will have a polite discussion?"

Tabitha sat in the chair behind the desk, placing her feet on it like she was the boss.

"You think you and I will be civil after that?" Sylvia said darkly. "Then I say 'Fuck you'."

"Wow," Tabitha sighed with mock disappointment. "You know what, I thought I would get a lot more sass from your husband, but turns out _you_ possess a lot more spunk. Nothing I'd expect from a pigeon."

Sylvia narrowed her eyes.

"Pardon?"

Tabitha chuckled, "He calls you 'Pigeon'. I've listened. I've heard. I think it's cute actually, you know. He's a penguin. You're a pigeon. 'Birds of a feather flock together' is a saying, but you two have taken it more literally."

"You're trying to antagonize me, aren't you?" Sylvia asked.

"Is it working?"

"Admittedly, yes. But I'm not going to hurt you," Sylvia stated. "I'm exercising a great deal of control."

"Really?" Tabitha mused, grinning ear-to-ear. "Tell me what you want to do to me, right now. I bet that bloodlust of yours is just _aching_ to get out, isn't it?"

Sylvia inhaled deeply, gritting her teeth. Then she released said breath, looking at Tabitha coldly. But did nothing.

"Mm," Tabitha noted. "Penguin certainly has his hooks into you, doesn't he? He's not even here, and you're still obeying his orders. What were they— 'Don't harm me'…? or something like that."

"Something like that," Sylvia uttered dangerously.

"Your girl from the Narrows does good work," said Tabitha as she stood to her feet. "Burned all those buildings to the ground, perfectly. But I can't help but wonder why you didn't do it yourself. From what I saw at the gala, you have a flair for setting things on fire. So, why didn't the little bread head have _you_ start the fires?"

"I don't know," Sylvia lied. "Maybe you should ask him."

"Mm, that'd be no fun."

"So, you're bored," said Sylvia knowingly. "Maybe you should go and kidnap another mayor, huh?"

Tabitha smiled smugly: "I like the way you think. But you're so much more fun to play with. Unless...you want me to find something to do and—oh, I don't know—go harass your darling little mother-in-law for a few more hours. I have to admit, she's pretty fun to play with too."

"Take me instead."

Tabitha blinked.

"Excuse me?" Tabitha asked, but she seemed to already know what Sylvia meant.

She strode forward, Sylvia did. She moved the chair out of the way so she and Tabitha stood only a couple feet from each other.

"You heard me." Sylvia ordered. "Bring Gertrud home. Take me instead."

"We both know why we won't do that," said Tabitha smoothly. "You're a fighter, but your mother-in-law isn't. She's such an easy thing to play with, so vulnerable. Have you heard her cry, little pigeon? It's really fun to watch."

Sylvia took a step forward. Tabitha eyed her cautiously.

"You want someone to play with?" Sylvia asked quietly. "You want someone to torture, who will make it worth your while, then you take me instead."

"I'd be a lot harder on you than I've been with the woman," Tabitha promised.

"I don't care. You take me instead." Sylvia insisted, unblinkingly. "You leave her be, you bring her home. I'll go with you, right now. Just as long as you leave my family alone."

"And then we'll have Jim Gordon to fight with," said Tabitha lazily. "That sounds fun too, but probably not the best thing for my brother's campaign. And he _just_ bought your brother's endorsement too. Nah, it wouldn't really help us, taking you. We'll just keep Gertrud with us for now."

Sylvia frowned, saying, "Or I could kill you _now_ and save everyone a hell lot of trouble."

"Oh, but what if Theo found out what hostile plans you have in that twisted mind of yours?"

"He doesn't care about you," continued Sylvia darkly. "If he learned that you were struck dead by my hand, he would not even throw you a funeral. And your brother wouldn't think twice about you. He'd probably even let me have my way, and say that I could do anything with you. Given the opportunity, I'd bury your body, ideally _alive_ , and I'd leave you there to rot."

"If I died, she would die too—she'd never be able to leave; you don't where she is."

"I'd make you tell me where she is." Sylvia said, stepping forward. "I could do it right here."

"Those people will hear." Tabitha reminded, nodding her head to the guests that stood outside the door.

" _Those_ people?" said Sylvia, glancing out the office door. "They don't care about _you_. They're _my_ people. And they don't give a shit **what** I do to people like you."

Tabitha grinned, "I didn't realize how fun this would be when I came here."

Sylvia backed off, growling inwardly. Seemingly having gotten her fill, Tabitha sighed, "Your people may not be as loyal as you think, little pigeon. You might want to get your loyalties checked. See you later."

Sylvia watched her, narrowing her eyes.

 _What was that supposed to mean_ , she wondered.

A basic manipulative play, surely. Tabitha seemed to be that type.

Sylvia slammed the door shut, and sat at her desk. Her life was slowly crumbling into a mess, and how was she getting through it? Slamming doors, making empty threats. She would keep up appearances, pretend she was happy when, really, she felt like she was going mad.

But that's what a queen did, in the face of chaos? Right? Keep up appearances. And she could do that, still. _Right_?

Seeing that no amount of internal struggle would dull the pain of uncertainty, Sylvia left Tiffany in charge of Karaoke and wandered into the mansion. Between Jim allying himself with Galavan and Tabitha's excursion to make Sylvia's mind more confused than it already was, she was up to her eyes in shit.

As she strode inside the mansion, she was surprised when an elderly woman with a large frock passed her. Sylvia looked at her oddly, even as the woman passed and drove off down the driveway.

"What the…" Sylvia began.

"That's Edwidge."

Sylvia startled, seeing Butch smiling after the woman who'd gone. He stood in the doorway, leaning against it with one arm over his head.

"Quite the woman," he said, then turned to Sylvia. "What are you all dolled up for?"

"I was entertaining," said Sylvia dully. "At the club. Karaoke night."

"Sounds fun."

"It _was_ fun." Sylvia muttered, rolling her shoulders back. "Who's Edwidge?"

"She knows old-time Gotham."

"Was she here to talk about the Waynes?"

Butch looked at Sylvia with surprise and awe.

"I visited my brother earlier," Sylvia explained. "All the fires have one landlord—Wayne Enterprises. Old-time Gotham and the Wayne family are pretty much the peanut butter and jelly of a good story. Care to share?"

Sensing an underlying grumpy edge to her tone, Butch asked, "What's eating _you_?"

"Nothing."

"Well, I know _that's_ a lie."

Sylvia stormed through the mansion, taking off her heels as she did; Butch followed her, saying nothing. The way he figured, she come out with whatever was bothering her—the woman looked like she needed to vent otherwise she would implode.

"That fucking woman came to me at the club," grumbled Sylvia.

"Who?"

"Tabitha _Galavan_ ," Sylvia spat the name like it was a poison.

"What'd she do?" Butch asked, worried.

"Nothing."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing pleasant."

Butch crossed his arms, leaning against the kitchen door frame as Sylvia ransacked the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of vodka. She didn't even grab a glass; instead, she popped off the cork and took a long swig for herself. Butch raised his eyebrows in response.

"The fucking cunt," Sylvia growled, rubbing the dribble of vodka from her chin with the back of her hand. "Whenever the moment presents itself for me to slit her throat, I'll do it with a fucking hacksaw."

"Chainsaw would be quicker," he suggested.

"I don't want it to be quick." Sylvia said breathlessly as she placed the vodka on the counter. "I want her to feel everything for as long as possible."

Amused, Butch offered, "Well, I can certainly see the appeal."

Sylvia took another long drink.

"Whoa…." Butch warned, taking the bottle from Sylvia, who didn't even protest. "Liv, you're gonna kill yourself if you go at this rate."

"At this point, I'd take it as a welcome relief."

"Sit down," Butch advised. "I'll pour us a couple and I can tell you something that might just make you happy."

Sylvia grumbled something under her breath that Butch wouldn't hear, but he took it as some type of consent. He placed a glass in front of her, one in front of himself as well. Half of the glass contained cranberry juice to dilute the vodka; he filled the rest, as such.

"Where's Oswald?" Sylvia asked, looking around the kitchen.

"Taking a breather outside," Butch said. "Clearing his mind. Maybe you might want to do the same."

"I don't want my mind to be clear," Sylvia said harshly. "I want it to be muddy, and dark, and **cold**. Much like the rest of my soul."

"So, I'm guessing Tabitha got to you."

"I guess me calling her a 'fucking cunt' didn't make that clear?" Sylvia questioned sarcastically.

Butch held his hand up in surrender.

"Well, here's the good news," He said. "Penguin seems to have figured something out, to beating Galavan."

"How?"

"This knife," said Butch, holding up the weapon that had been sitting on the table, unrecognized by Sylvia until now, "This knife belongs to the Wayne family."

"Why is it here?" Sylvia questioned dully, then taking another long drink from the glass.

"Galavan wanted it."

"Fine. But, I reiterate, 'Why is _it_ here'?"

"I've not sent it to him yet. So, it's just been sitting on this table."

"Ah." Sylvia mumbled.

She took a long drink of the cranberry-vodka mixture and then placed it back on the table; it was empty. "So, why was…. Edwidge here—is that really her name?"

"Yeah."

"Who names their kid 'Edwidge'?"

"Guess her parents did," Butch offered.

"Obviously," Sylvia sighed. "So why was she here?"

"She knows the story behind the knife."

"What's the story?"

"I can't make it as narrative as she can, but in short: the Waynes got rid of this family named Dumas," he explained. "Took them off the charts, pushed them out of history. Dumas changed their name to 'Galavan'."

"Well, I guess the Waynes and I have something in common," Sylvia muttered. "Pushing Galavan's people from the history books is a fantastic idea."

"I figure so. Same ballpark idea as punishments go too, apparently."

"Meaning?"

"This knife cut off Dumas' hand," said Butch, pointing at the weapon. "The guy was sleeping with one of the Wayne girls, and _boom_ —off goes the hand. Pretty fascinating story."

"Sounds like it." Sylvia mused. "Too bad I wasn't here for it."

"Like I said, I don't do it justice."

"Well, I like the summary," said Sylvia, allowing herself a small smile. "And Oswald is outside….?"

"Getting some fresh air," Butch reminded, nodding.

"Oh, right. You told me that already."

"What'd the sister say to you anyway?" Butch asked, looking her over. "You're really pissed off."

"Am I?"

Butch shrugged, saying, "I'd say you are."

"She came to gloat," said Sylvia. "Talked about how she has my mother-in-law."

"You didn't hurt her, did you?"

"Against my better instincts, I didn't." Sylvia said coolly.

"Well, I guess we can both drink to that."

"I did offer to take Gertrud's place though."

Butch had been in the process of pouring Sylvia another glass, and in that moment, he stumbled and some splashed on the table. Sylvia looked unaffected, glancing at him curiously. Butch put the bottle down, looking at her disbelievingly.

"You did _what_?" Butch exclaimed.

"I told Tabitha to take me, and bring Gertrud home." Sylvia repeated. "Not that it did anything; the bitch insisted that she keep her since they'd have to fight with Jim and the rest of the GCPD. Wouldn't be beneficial to the Mayoral Campaign, she said."

"Liv, do you have any idea what that girl can do?" Butch said quietly.

Sylvia said curtly, "I do. And I don't give a fuck. I'd gladly put myself in harm's way so Gertrud comes home. I could sleep better knowing it was me. I'd _rather_ it was me. At least then I would know that she was safe."

"If Penguin finds out what you tried to do—" Butch warned.

"I don't care." Sylvia said, throwing her hand towards him dismissively. "And there's more."

"More?"

Following another long swig of vodka, Sylvia added breathlessly, "I also threatened to kill Tabitha."

" _ **What**_!"

"And said that if I did kill her, Theo wouldn't care."

"Why would you go and say those things!" Butch said, eyes wide.

Sylvia stood suddenly, scooting her chair violently back so the legs made scratches across the wooden floor. She met him, eye-level.

"Because I was furious!" Sylvia shouted. "She pissed me off, so I lit her up! You want me to say that I just sat down and stayed quiet, be a good little girl—well, I didn't! I threatened to kill her, bury her in the ground—hell, I'd happily watch her carcass _rot_ beneath my feet. And I'd cackle maniacally in the night, laughing my fucking head off!"

Butch stared at her saying, "You might have hurt Gertrud, saying all that stuff to Tabitha. She'll take her temper out on her."

"I couldn't help it, Butch!" Sylvia snarled. "She vexed me! She comes to _my_ club, threatens _me_ , calls me a 'little pigeon' and you don't think I'll bite off her head? That's what she wanted, and by god, that's what I gave her! She is _happy_ that I was pissed off, so—excuse me, Butch—no harm will come to Gertrud because I gave that bitch what she wanted."

Butch stared, still.

"You're starting to crack under the pressure," He noted.

"I'm cracking, all right," said Sylvia harshly, sitting down with a 'thud'. "I'm falling apart. I'm roasting away. I'm going mad! Why else would I offer my life to that devil woman? This whole shtick is driving me _insane_."

The door creaked.

Sylvia and Butch glanced towards the doorway where Oswald stood, watching them. And who knew how long he'd been there. He might as well as heard the whole thing.

Oswald stepped inside the room, looking at Sylvia carefully.

"You tried to take her place?" He asked quietly.

Sylvia sighed in defeat, nodding.

"Why would you do that?" Oswald questioned.

It wasn't clear if he was angry, sad, or surprised. His expression, for the first time since Sylvia knew him, was unreadable.

"I hate seeing you like this," said Sylvia, looking at him. "I hate knowing these people have you under their thumb. It's intolerable."

"If you took her place," said Oswald calmly, "I would still be in the same situation."

Butch quietly cleared his throat and made a point to exit the room so the two could have some privacy. Sylvia looked in the direction Butch had gone, then turned her head to Oswald, who still gazed at her with a blank expression.

"If I took her place," Sylvia stated, "you'd be in the same situation but with better circumstances. You know as well as I do, I would be better off in that cage...not your mother."

Oswald sat down in a chair, beside her.

"True," he agreed. "But then I'd be lost."

"You're lost now."

"Not so much," Oswald said.

"You're going mad without her," Sylvia pointed out. "You've been having nightmares, and you've not slept much after the fact. I know how _I_ feel when I think about her; I can't imagine what you're going through."

Oswald smiled sadly, and took her hands in his.

"Pigeon" (she smiled at the pet name) "I honestly couldn't imagine a world without you."

Sylvia said lightly, "That's sweet, Ozzie. But you have to admit that you wish they'd taken me instead of her."

Oswald said nothing, but Sylvia knew it in her heart that it was true. He didn't say it—because he didn't want to admit it either.

"You don't have to feel bad for thinking that," Sylvia murmured. "I know you love me. I know you care for me. But it's true, isn't it?"

"Whether it is or isn't," Oswald said, "It means the world to me to know that you were willing to make the sacrifice."

She smiled sweetly at him. He looked at for a moment, pausing in hesitation before leaning forward. His lips met hers. It was one of the softer kisses, gentle in nature but deep in meaning. When it naturally broke, Sylvia looked at him, seeing his soft expression change to one of discernible worry. It was an expression that frequently shadowed his features.

"How did I get so lucky to have you still standing by my side?" Oswald asked her quietly.

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Sylvia returned; she put a nice peck on his cheek.

"I fear these times will become too dangerous for you," he said seriously. "I'd ask you to leave Gotham, for now..."

"But you'll know I will refuse," Sylvia reminded. "I didn't leave your side when Falcone and Maroni were having that family feud, and I didn't leave when you were strung up by your wrists with Falcone and Jim. I'll be damned if I leave your side now, when you need me most."

Oswald smiled at her, but sadly. He searched for something to say, something to describe the way he was feeling, but the way he looked at her was enough. Still, he tried.

"How do you deal with this?" Oswald asked. "How—"

Sylvia put his left hand on her neck, three fingers over her carotid artery. He gave her a curious look.

"Tell me what you feel." Sylvia said gently.

"Your heart beat," Oswald answered almost immediately.

"Good. Now, kiss me again." She said.

"Pidge..."

"Just do it." Sylvia insisted.

Oswald leaned forward and kissed her again. Softly, like before. With his hand over her heart beat, he felt the familiar thump-thump. Trying to understand her hidden meaning, Oswald decided to take a step further; the soft kiss became deeper as he probed her bottom lip with his tongue, smiling when he felt her heartbeat thump faster.

She parted her lips, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth when his tongue found hers.

And, my, how quick her heart raced. And he could feel it too.

Sylvia placed her hand over his hand that held her neck.

"You do things to me, make me feel things that no one has ever made me feel," She said quickly, her lips brushing against his as she spoke. "Everything about you pulls me in. So, when you question why I stay by your side, the answer will always be 'you'."

Oswald smiled at her saying, "You certainly have a way with words, don't you, Pidge?"

"I've learned from the best," Sylvia purred, grinning at him. "Your looks and personality draw me in. That dick of yours is just bonus."

Oswald let out a modest laugh, and it broke the surface tension.


	32. Moments Like These

Chapter Thirty-Two: Moments Like These

* * *

She lied in bed, her mind in the balance of the slumber and the awareness that she was not completely asleep, wearing a lavender night slip; the comforter was bunched around her in a pile, exposing her smooth legs and red-painted toes.

Oswald sat on the edge of the bed closest to her, fully dressed. He would wager that seeing her so calm and undisturbed was, by the far, the best highlight of his day...hell, his week, even. He touched her shoulder, so light that he wasn't even certain that his fingers made contact with the exposed skin.

Often times, his fretful dreams and his paranoia kept him up at night; he might sleep three of four hours on a good day...five or six if Sylvia was sleeping beside him.

He moved his hand down her arm, and from her arm, he caressed her side, then her hip. His dreams were mainly nightmares; it was frightening how horrific his own mind would torture him at night, while Galavan and his sister, in the meantime, tortured him during his wakeful hours.

His only solace was her.

"Mmm..." She uttered, and snuggled further into the covers. Holding something.

He glanced at what she was holding, hidden underneath her body and cradled in her arms. When he realized what it was, he couldn't hold back a small laugh.

It was the cotton-stuffed penguin plush doll that he'd given her on the day she had awoken from her coma. He'd presumed she'd thrown it away during an odd week, but...here it was.

Oswald smirked; his wife was secretly sentimental.

"Amongst many other things," Oswald thought aloud as he brushed the stray strands of hair from her forehead.

In these quiet moments, Oswald could be himself, and quietly watch his beloved slowly drift into a deep sleep. These moments were rare in themselves, but he cherished them whenever he could. He kissed her forehead, allowing his lips to linger for only a few seconds longer.

What if he wasn't the King of Gotham. What if he and Sylvia were just the most ordinary married couple in Gotham, and neither of them had to worry about being kidnapped, held at gunpoint, ransoms—what if they just had lived a normal life. Oswald wondered about this several times…did she regret marrying him at times when people like Galavan imposed on what could be an easy life?

Sylvia stirred, and she turned on her back, looking up at him.

"You're in deep thought," she noted hoarsely.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Oswald apologized.

"I wasn't asleep."

She rubbed her eyes and looked at him curiously.

"You're still dressed," Sylvia noted. "What time is it?"

"It's nightfall."

"Are you coming to bed?"

"I have to talk with Butch first," said Oswald darkly.

"It can't wait until tomorrow?"

"No."

Sylvia raised her eyebrows, hearing his tone. She shifted in the covers, pulling herself up so she and Oswald were at eye-level. He didn't expect her to let it go; Oswald knew Sylvia better than she knew herself.

"Are you okay?" Sylvia asked quietly.

"You know the answer to that."

"Can I help in any way?"

"Not really." He answered with a small smile. "You can go back to sleep. I'll only be gone a couple hours."

"Are you leaving the mansion?"

"No." Oswald reassured. "As I said, I'll be speaking with Butch."

"Should I be present?"

"Your presence isn't necessary," He said gently. "Just go back to sleep, Pigeon."

Sylvia looked at him a while longer, like she was trying to see past his soft words. Oswald was certain she would insist, but to his surprise, she lied back down, nestled under the covers.

She giggled, "Were you watching me sleep?"

"It's my favorite pastime," Oswald admitted.

"You know, if you were anyone else but yourself, I'd say that was a little creepy."

"Well, you should be used to me by now."

"Mmm."

He leaned in and she met him halfway with the kiss. Soft, and tender. She smiled at him and then she closed her eyes, so she could drift off to sleep. He kissed her forehead like before, and then stood to his feet. The weight of the bed shifted with the loss of his, and Sylvia opened her eyes once more to see him leave.

"Oz."

Oswald stopped at the doorway, turning around to look at her.

"Yes, my dear?"

Sylvia pointed saying, "Do you mind turning off the light on your way out?"

"Of course." Oswald said, smiling. He turned off the switch.

"Thank you, Pengy."

"You're welcome, Pidge. I love you."

"I love you too." Sylvia responded before turning on her side and cradling the penguin plush once more.

Oswald closed the door with a soft _click_ before making his way down to the Meeting Room once more. On his way down, he grabbed a hatchet from the broom closet, and as he sat at the table, he placed it underneath its surface.

Chopping off Butch's hand was the only option, it seemed. The only other alternative was to hurt Sylvia, make her be the one to tell Galavan that she had switched sides, but that wouldn't work out. Sylvia had long made her loyalties known to everyone.

There was no doubt that Sylvia would allow him to chop off her hand. That wasn't the issue. Oswald doubted that _he_ could make himself do it. There wasn't a part of Sylvia that he could harm, never the less, chop off.

So Butch had to be his designated closer.


	33. Advice From The Right-Handed

Chapter Thirty-Three: Advice from the Right-Handed

* * *

"You cut off his hand." Sylvia said for what seemed like the twentieth time since she had found out.

"It was the only option," Oswald told her patiently; he sat on his throne inside the Meeting Room, holding a glass of wine by the neck, while his beloved preferred to slowly pace throughout the room in a knee-length teal robe, wet ginger locks cast over her shoulders.

"You cut off...his hand," she repeated.

Oswald made a strong effort to not roll his eyes in front of her. Surely, she wasn't this surprised that he'd done this?

Sylvia stopped in place, her back to him until she slowly turned on her heel, looking at him.

"Did you at least put his hand in an ice box or something?" Sylvia said calmly as she placed her hands on the back of a chair closest to Oswald; her fingernails drummed the wooden arch. "I feel like that's something that would be hard to part with, you know." Her words followed with thinly veiled contempt: "Of course, it was the _only_ option..."

"Don't patronize me," Oswald scoffed, sitting back in his chair. "It _was_ the only way."

"Was it?" She responded. "There are other ways of making Butch seem convincing. I can't think of any right now, but cutting off his hand must be like top five or so. Maybe number four."

"He _has_ to get close to Galavan," Oswald uttered more to himself than speaking to her. "Galavan not only needs to believe him, but he needs to feel for him."

"Feelings, huh? Well, maybe you should have cut off one of his testicles. From one man to another, Galavan would definitely feel a little pity for that kind of loss," Sylvia said, shrugging a shoulder.

Oswald shook his head and returned his eyes to the red translucent liquid in his glass. This was the fourth time they'd quibbled this week. Sure, married couples had a reputation of doing nothing but squabbling, but who knew it was actually true.

"'Butch Gilzean: The Spy'," Sylvia sneered, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "That's laughable, considering the fact that he's not exactly James Bond, honey."

"Enough," Oswald ordered, glaring at her. "I've listened to what you had to say and, still, I maintain my position. It was between you and Butch for me to decide who would go to Galavan—"

"And you chose **him**." Sylvia hissed, pointing towards the door to indicate where Butch had recently been dismissed.

"I did," said Oswald, standing by his decision.

Sylvia crossed her arms, saying, "You don't think I could be convincing?"

"Please, don't make this about you," Oswald scoffed.

Sylvia scooted the chair into the table with little grace, glaring at him. He remained unaffected, having become normalized to her brief outbursts of a violent temper. His eyes didn't falter from hers even as she strode towards him.

"I'm not making _anything_ about me," said Sylvia hotly. "But you can't blame me for feeling a _tad_ bit offended that you sent _that_ _lummox_ to sway Galavan, instead of me. I mean, I'm a _better_ liar, and I'm _closer_ to being spy material than that gorilla. And—by the way—"(Her tone sharpened) "I don't need an amputation or a hard scrub of the brain to make me a good spy. But instead of sending me, you send _him_."

Oswald met her harsh gaze, knowing he should have been more prepared for this argument. There was a flicker of jealousy in her eyes for the reason that Oswald had chosen Butch to appeal to Galavan's pity rather than herself.

He'd expected her to feel offended, but did not predict her to fly off the handle.

Pointing to the seat beside him, Oswald said, "Pigeon, sit down."

"I don't _want_ to sit down," said Sylvia, her eyes bright. "I wanna know why you didn't send me."

"Your loyalties were proven to me a thousand times over," he answered harshly. "Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but Galavan would never believe you turned traitor."

"And he thinks Butch would?"

"He will think that _I_ think he's turned traitor."

Sylvia threw her hands up in the air, saying, "This **whole** plan is so convoluted."

Oswald let out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose to postpone the inevitable headache.

"What would you have me do?" Oswald questioned.

"Bring Butch back; send me instead. Galavan has a thing for me," said Sylvia, crossing her arms over her chest. "We can use that. He may not be able to think that I would turn on you, Oswald, but he has more than paranoia on the brain. He's a human—a man—and he's more than capable of other emotions. And _he_ can be manipulated."

Oswald narrowed his eyes.

"Please tell me you're not suggesting what I think you're about to suggest." Oswald told her coldly.

"Lust can be manipulated, but I'm not about to sleep with him for information, if that's what you mean," said Sylvia, shrugging her shoulders back. "Besides, it wouldn't work. Even after I slept with him, there's no guarantee that he'd tell me where Gertrud is, and even if he did, his minions would probably move her location before I could even have the chance to find her. On the flip side, too, Galavan is too tightly wound to believe that I'd give myself to him after he told me."

Oswald said darkly, "It seems you've thought this plan of yours all the way through."

"Just getting the information part," she said, nodding, "not the part about sleeping with him. I've tried to neglect that part for the betterment of my sanity. And for the very reason that I wouldn't go that far to get information on your mom...unless, of course, you asked it of me."

"I wouldn't ask you to sleep with another man," Oswald told her.

"Good to know."

"Butch will do his part," Oswald insisted.

"How can you be so sure?"

"He's my servant. He's supposed to obey me in all things. He'll do what I've asked."

"Oh, like I wouldn't?" Sylvia returned.

"I couldn't take that chance," he said quietly. "If Galavan somehow turned you against me, I would have no one."

"We've been over this before—you can't lose me," Sylvia persisted. "And the whole point of me doing all this training with Mr. Bell is to ensure that I would not become leverage."

"Galavan doesn't have to bring you down physically to turn you against me," Oswald reminded.

Sylvia scoffed, "Like that man could ever understand me the same way you do. Like he could even _try_ to compare with the likes of you. At best, he's rich—he has _nothing_ else."

She rounded the table, and knelt down in front of him; her hands rested on his lap.

"I could be in and out of that mansion, Oz. I could find your mother's whereabouts before they even realized I was there," Sylvia said earnestly. "I've been in there before—we both have. Butch could distract them—god knows, he has enough stories to do that. And then, we can be done with this shit. I promise I could do it!"

"You can't make that kind of promise."

"You doubt my word?"

"I don't doubt you," Oswald replied. "I trust you completely. It's _them_ that I don't trust. And I can't afford to lose you. Not now, not ever."

There was a beat in the silence, as though both Oswald and Sylvia had exhausted all their options. The two of them were tired, and it had been an ongoing emotional roller coaster since Gertrud had been kidnapped.

She looked up at him, her eyes having lost their glare.

Oswald's eyes flickered to meet hers, noticing that her argumentative fire had smoldered. He could see that she was truly trying to figure out other ways of getting back at Galavan. He reached his hand out to interlace his fingers through the blanket of tangled copper hair, and she laid her head down on his thigh.

"This has to end," Sylvia muttered as Oswald rubbed her neck. "All of this."

"It will," Oswald reassured.

The wine glass on the table became forgotten as Oswald caressed his hands around her face and encouraged her to move closer to him. She stood, then lifted her robe a little so she could sit on his lap, straddling him; her feet barely touched the ground, her toes making contact with the wooden panels beneath her.

"Do you know how much I love you?" Oswald asked quietly, his fingers laced behind her neck amongst the tangles.

"I do," she said, "But tell me, on a mathematical scale, how much do you love me? From one to ten….?"

"Fifty." Oswald answered immediately.

"That's a lot," she noted.

He chuckled, "Are you surprised?"

"Not at all, Mr. Penguin," Sylvia returned. "But it's remarkable to say the least."

"On this scale of yours, how do _I_ compare?" Oswald asked.

"Fifty- _one_."

"That's high, but respectable."

"I love you more than you could possibly love me," said Sylvia truthfully. "If you asked it of me, I'd let you chop off my hand."

"That's good to know," Oswald pointed out. "But I couldn't do it, even with your permission."

"I'd chop it off myself," Sylvia offered.

"I know you would," he reassured. "But I would rather you not."

"So that's why you chose Butch, huh." Sylvia uttered quietly. "Despite knowing that I would be better at convincing Galavan, you still choose Butch because you can't stand the thought of hurting me, even if I said it was okay?"

"You are a great source of strength for me, Pigeon." Oswald told her quietly. "Hurting you may seem like a necessity but it should never get to that point. There will always be other options, even if there are none."

"You're really sweet," Sylvia noted, grinning up at him. "However, if you wanted to take my hand, I'd prefer it that you take my left," She added with a mischievous grin. "I'm right-handed, mind you."

"Duly noted," Oswald returned, smiling at her.

* * *

Sylvia sat on the balcony of _Lean on Vee's._ Mostly, she was admiring how things were going downstairs; the entertainment was performing best as expected; drinks flowed like an endless fountain of inebriation; and, yet, despite everything, she couldn't shake the constant dread.

While Butch was playing spy for Oswald, and was also trying to sneak his way into Galavan's charms, there was plenty that could go awry. Sylvia leaned over the banister, watching a few of the customers become belligerent before Dagger and Chilly decided to throw them out.

It was fair to say that she was feeling on edge. But not without reason.

When she heard a familiar voice tell Henry "Tell Sylvia I'm here", she already knew the reason for why Henry was headed up the stairs, taking three steps at a time. When he appeared breathless before her, Henry opened his mouth to speak, but Sylvia smiled, saying, "Let him up."

Henry dutifully nodded before heading back down the stairs, sliding more down the rail than actually taking the steps. A minute passed before Sylvia turned from the balcony to see Jim in front of her, looking more haggard than usual.

"Hi, Jimmy," Sylvia greeted, smiling casually at him.

"Hey, Vee."

He moved towards her, and they embraced with a half-hug, one arm wrapped around the other shoulders before he pulled away, looking more or less at war with himself. Sylvia offered him the seat opposite of hers, and he sat down abruptly; he clasped his hands together on the table.

"Do you remember Selina Kyle," Jim said curtly.

"'Cat'," Sylvia corrected, grinning. "Yes. I do. Last I saw her, she was playing Devil's Advocate with Fish while you, Falcone, Harvey, and my husband were tied up by your wrists. Pleasant memory, fond of it actually—What did she do?"

"She didn't do anything—for once. It's who she's protecting," Jim informed coolly.

"The one who's been starting the fires?"

"The same."

"I told you before," said Sylvia calmly. "I _don't_ know who started them. And my people don't know either."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Fairly." Sylvia replied. "But I'm guessing, because you're _here_ , you have some reservations about that."

"Not about what you don't know," said Jim. "Selina told me who the fire starter is. It's a girl by the name of Bridgit Pike. Does the name ring a bell?"

"Never met her."

"Do you know her brothers?"

"Who are _they_?"

Jim scowled, saying, "Joe and Cale Pike. They kidnapped her. Stole her away. According to Selina, Bridgit was forced to start the fires..."

"And you believe Selina?"

"I normally wouldn't. But just a while ago, she had me at gun point."

"Hand gun?"

"Shot gun," Jim corrected indignantly. He added dully, "Not that it matters."

"Quite the armory for such a little girl," said Sylvia coolly. "So you know who the arsonist is, and you know the name of her captors. So, why are you _here_?"

Jim leaned back in his seat, his hand twitched on the table. After a moment, he said nothing, but he leaned in once more, looking at Sylvia with imploring eyes.

"The GCPD is after her," said Jim. "They're looking to shoot the moment they see her; they won't hesitate."

"So find this girl before _they_ do." Sylvia insisted. "They're probably in their house, you know. Packing up, getting ready to go where they're heading—you might catch them in time if you get there first."

Jim looked at her plainly: "I can't just go there."

"You're a fucking detective, Jim—You can literally go anywhere."

"The Pike brothers won't simply _give_ her to me."

"Are you suggesting that I come along and they would give her to _me_?" asked Sylvia incredulously.

Jim shrugged like she'd gotten his point pretty quick.

"They won't listen to me." Sylvia retorted.

"You're a criminal, _they're_ criminals," Jim said logically. "They see me, they'll run."

"They see _me_ ," Sylvia responded, getting to her feet, "And they'll be after _my head._ Jim, just because we're criminals, doesn't mean we'd get along swimmingly. They're Fish Loyalists, they still think she's coming back."

Jim gave her a desperate look.

"There's nothing I can do," said Sylvia. "If anything, I'd make matters worse. They know whose side I was on during the war, and they know my spouse—I'm not about to put myself in murky waters just because there's a slight chance that I'd get your suspect out of this familial hostage situation. You're barking mad to think I would."

"You're not going to try?" Jim asked, frowning. "You'd be saving a life."

"Or sentencing one to death," said Sylvia darkly. "You're better off finding this girl without me, James. If those Pike brothers see me with you, you can kiss your chances of getting their sister good-bye. Now, if you're looking for reinforcements, I have two people you can borrow, but you'll have to bring them back."

"Your bruisers, no thanks."

"Well, it's the thought that counts," said Sylvia, shrugging.

Jim stood.

"Thanks for your help, Vee."

"Don't thank me just yet. I didn't do anything," said Sylvia. "For what it's worth, I hope you find this girl and get her out of this sticky situation she's in."

Jim nodded briskly before he started walking away. As he was half-way down the stairs, Sylvia called after him. He turned, looking up at her.

"If you want to get this girl on your side," said Sylvia. "Promise her that she won't go to jail. A girl like her is afraid of that kind of thing. Tell her that's she still a juvie; she'll likely be more lenient to come along if she know she's not going to Black Gate. That always worked with _me_ as a kid."

Jim nodded, allowing himself to offer her a small smile before taking off.

Sylvia walked down the stairs, thanking Henry for when he offered her a second martini.

"Your brother tends to come in and out as he pleases, doesn't he?" Henry said dryly.

"More than I care to admit," said Sylvia.

"Does that bother you?"

"It used to bother me. But now, it's normally the only other time I get to see him. It's pretty much the family thing." Sylvia said smoothly, taking a sip of her martini before walking to the stage, waving away the entertainment.

* * *

Sylvia visited the GCPD the following day. For once, she had no business with Jim. Instead, she sought a different type of companionship.

She opened the door to the Forensics office, stopping shortly when she saw Ed and Kristen speaking in low, even tones. Her smile widened when Kristen kissed his cheek, and turned to walk away; seeing Sylvia, Kristen blushed a shade of pink.

"Oh, hi," she said modestly. "I was—"

"I know what you were doing, I'm sorry for interrupting," Sylvia apologized, taking a step back. "I can come back if you want..."

"It's fine," Kristen said quickly, smiling sweetly at Ed before turning to Sylvia. "I have a few records to file anyway. I best get to it, actually. This city keeps all of us busy, doesn't it?"

She waved at Ed before leaving the room. Sylvia looked after the records custodian before turning to Edward Nygma, who wore his regular white lab coat; he fixed his askew glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, smiling broadly when he saw her. However, something of Sylvia's expression made his own harden.

"What's wrong?" Ed asked quickly.

"Nothing," said Sylvia.

"I hate to say it, but I'm pretty sure you're lying," said Ed, pointing at her. "You don't look like 'nothing' is wrong. You're acting like there's a _lot_ of something wrong."

Sylvia raised her hands shoulder level.

"You got me," she admitted. She quickly dodged the topic, saying, "Looks like you and Kristen are getting along swimmingly."

"Do you mind closing the door? If you don't," said Ed coolly, "This office will have people coming and going—you won't know if we're the exit or the entrance."

"I know the feeling," she muttered, thinking of how often Jim came and gone in her club, while she closed the door with a _click._

Ed straightened his glasses once more before tightening the knob of his microscope. On the thin plate was a gelatin substance—not quite jello, but it reminded Sylvia of dried blood.

"Care to talk?" Ed asked, offering one of the stools for her to sit on.

"Do you have the time?"

"For you," said Ed, grinning widely, "I have an eternity. Please...I insist." He offered the stool beside him again, patting it before returning to his microscope.

Sylvia sat down.

"What seems to be the problem?" Ed asked. "You don't seem like yourself."

"You've hit the nail on the head, but I honestly didn't come here to talk about _me_." Sylvia offered kindly. "In fact, I'm trying to avoid the subject altogether. Instead, I want to know how things are going between you and Kristen."

"We're having dinner at my place at eight o'clock," He offered congenially. "But..." He stopped for a second, looking at Sylvia for another hot minute before returning to his microscope, saying, "Never mind."

"What?" Sylvia asked.

"It's nothing."

"Hmm, I think you're lying." Sylvia said, grinning widely. "It's not 'nothing'. It sounds like something. What is it that you wanted to say?"

Ed paused, straightening and fixing his tie before he leaned his backside against the counters behind him. He turned to Sylvia completely—gaze, body, and all.

"I'm at a crossroads, so to speak," Ed confessed, interlacing his fingers in front of him.

"Why?"

"I overheard Kristen and Dr. Thompkins talking in the records room," Ed said quietly.

"Eavesdropper," Sylvia teased.

"Nothing as sordid, but yes," Ed said, nodding.

"What did you hear?"

"I heard Kristen tell Lee that she thinks I'm hiding something from her," said Ed. "That she wished I would open up..."

Sylvia cleared her throat, crossed a leg over her knee, and said plainly, "Well, Ed...Technically, you're hiding something from her. The murder of Officer Dougherty."

"If I tell her what she wants to know, she'll think I'm—"

"Or maybe not," Sylvia interrupted, standing.

"I think I'll scare her away if I tell her about Dougherty."

"Then don't tell her," said Sylvia, gesturing to him.

"But she told Lee that she thinks I'm hiding something." Ed said. "And that I'm too gentle."

"Well, God, Ed, that doesn't necessarily mean that she wants to know you hacked up her abusive ex-boyfriend and threw him in the river," Sylvia said bluntly. "I mean, if anything, she wants you to roughen her up a little—sometimes a woman wants to see her man get rough."

Ed's eyes widened to the size of dinner platters, saying, "You mean, she wants me to _hit_ her?"

"Only if she's into that kind of thing," said Sylvia quickly. "Look, Ed. Kristen dated Flass—"

"—A waste of oxygen—" Ed grumbled.

"—And then Dougherty—"

"—I'm so glad he's dead—"

"—But now she's dating _you_ ," said Sylvia, gesturing to him sweetly. "You're kind, and thoughtful—you tell her she's beautiful, and you treat her well. That's all a girl really asks for. But sometimes, Ed, women like a little rough-housing."

Ed stared at her saying, "Do...Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Like that kind of thing," Ed said shyly.

"Damn straight I do," said Sylvia mischievously. "I could tell you what I like, but you might get embarrassed. The takeaway from this, my dear Ed, is that you can tell Kristen anything you want. Personally, telling her that you killed her ex might be a little too much. She's not like some women who don't give a shit about murder..."

"Like you," Ed offered.

"Right, so, if you tell her this, she might flee to the hills," said Sylvia.

"She knows I'm hiding stuff from her."

"Aren't we all?"

"It makes me nervous."

Sylvia sighed, crossing her arms: "Wine and dine her tonight, Edward. Tell her what she wants to hear."

"What's that?"

"That you love her," said Sylvia tiredly. "You _do_ love her, don't you?"

"I do."

"Tell her that tonight," she insisted. "For all you know, that's what you're hiding from her. Officer Dougherty—for all you know—is on vacation, hitting and punching some other fucking broad."

Ed blinked, saying, "That's a little harsh."

"Well, it would be true if you didn't kill him. So may all the ladies in Gotham thank you for your selfless act."

A moment passed during which Ed processed this information. It seemed to make as much sense to him as it did to her.

"Thank you for the advice; this has helped me a lot," Ed said kindly.

"Any time."

"Is there a way that I can help you with _your_ situation?"

Sylvia chuckled derisively, "What makes you think I have a situation?"

"Well, for starters, you're avoiding talking about yourself," Ed pointed out. "You have bags under your eyes, like you've not been sleeping, and you're not as….what's the word I'm looking for….well, you're not your usual abrasive self."

"I'm having a few personal troubles," said Sylvia lightly. "Nothing that I can't handle."

"Marital problems?" asked Ed, cocking his head a little to the left.

"In-Law problems," Sylvia corrected. "But I'm working through them."

"Kristen has some humorous set of parental units," Ed divulged. "They named her Kristen Kringle. K-K. I feel like I would like them."

"They certainly do share your quirky sense of humor," Sylvia agreed.

"Are you certain that I can't be of any help?" Ed offered once more.

"Not really, but I appreciate the thought." Sylvia said, smiling at him. "Tell me how it goes, 'Kay, Ed?"

Ed nodded.

Sylvia walked out of the Police Department, ducking from view whenever Capt Barnes strode through the main entrance. She needn't another conversation with that man if she could help it.


	34. A Wifely Queen

Chapter Thirty-Four: A Wifely Queen

* * *

Sylvia stood behind Oswald while he sat on his throne.

Standing behind him, Sylvia had started a slow massage across the nape of his neck, in hopes that this would lessen his tension and provide some sort of relief physically, if not emotionally. The longer his mother was held captive, the harder it seemed for him to concentrate on anything else other than getting her out of the creep's clutches.

While he became obsessed with the mission of rescue, Sylvia took control of business matters. In the past twenty-four hours, she'd met with the leader of the Five Families; half of the leaders were despondent taking orders from a woman, but the rest soon followed suit when they realized how organized she was—not to mention the fact that she'd threatened them all with a machete in any case they decided to start a mutiny.

She'd made the pay-offs with the captains that lined the docks and kept up the bootlegging, paid off the guards around the ports, and even some of the dirty cops that were embedded within the GCPD. _That_ certainly made things awkward—for the officers, not for Sylvia.

Making deals with the Underworld's boss had been simple when it was Penguin they were dealing with. When Sylvia had paid their visit, all of them had a hard time looking her in the eye. Maybe taking money from the King of Gotham's wife had been more awkward when they also remembered that she was the Detective's sister. Instead of meeting eyes with the Queen of the Underworld, the only eyes the officers could see were those identical to their brother-in-arms, Jim Gordon.

After she'd met with the GCPD rats, she spoke to a few of the club owners that were in the Narrows. Most of them paid tariffs to the leader in the Narrows, a fat man by the name of Sampson. They feared and loathed the man, and had to pay protection fees to keep themselves protected from _him;_ the Narrows residents had to pay double if they wanted protection from the other scumbags that dwelled in the sewers.

Sylvia offered an under-the-table deal to the residents in the Narrows. By pooling their money to the King and Queen of Gotham, Sylvia would offer to protect them from the sewage so they didn't have to pay double costs to the man who threatened their everyday lives.

50% of their wages—that's what Sampson was demanding. 80% if they wanted extra protection. Sylvia only demanded 20% (with 10% divided between herself and her husband)—she wasn't greedy.

So the money flowed from not just the docks, the club owners, and the Five Families, but also from the Narrows as well.

Since Oswald had slowly become an emotional butterbean from dealing with Galavan's shit, Sylvia had made a reputation for herself; she was the Queen, not because she was married to the King of Gotham, but because she could _rule_ like a Queen—even if her own life was a royal wreck.

Her people to include Henry, Dagger, Chilly, Tiffany, Mr. Bell, Josh, Marcy, and Freda were not the only people who saw this. Oswald's people, to include Butch, Gabe, and Stanley (who'd healed nicely from the wounds handed to him after telling him about the Count House raid) had taken notice of her efforts as well.

In their silence and waiting for Butch to return with what was hopefully good news, Oswald broke it with his own soft voice.

"When I became the King of Gotham," he said quietly, "I had _no_ idea how well you would excel at being my Queen."

Sylvia followed the nape of his neck with her thumbs, adding pressure, while the rest of her fingers slowly slid around to his throat.

"Well, I wasn't born a leader," said Sylvia modestly. "I had to learn. And you make an excellent tutor."

Oswald allowed himself a small smile, hearing her praise. He didn't say much of anything, only smiling when she undid his tie and relaxed the collar of his shirt so as to allow her hands more access to the tension of his shoulders.

"Anything to report?" Oswald asked.

"Nothing worth raising a fuss over," said Sylvia.

She rounded the chair, scooting the leg of it with her foot so she could sit in his lap. The hem of her knee-length dress rose above her thighs, and she was unfazed by the sharp sound of her heels falling off her feet and clattering to the wooden floor.

Oswald looked at her curiously, even more so when she continued rubbing his shoulders as though she'd not been interrupted with her small adjustment.

"Tell me anyway," Oswald said firmly.

"As you wish," she sighed. "I met with the people at the Docks. They made their payments, the like—a few pirates came by a couple of weeks ago, robbed them blind, but otherwise, they're doing super."

"Did they recover from the robbery?"

"I didn't ask," said Sylvia, shrugging nonchalantly. "Their payments came on time, and there's no blood on the pier—I'm assuming that they didn't get hit too badly. If they did, they'd find their burglars, strip them of their useful assets, skin them alive, and then collect what was left and pawn it for collateral."

Oswald gave her a look; Sylvia smirked, saying, "Or at least, that's what I would do. Otherwise—No troubles."

Oswald accepted this with ease, then asked, "What about the Five Families?"

"I met with them yesterday," Sylvia returned. "Old men—all of them. They're too traditional, too old-fashioned. You should have seen how tightly wounded they got when they realized they'd be taking orders from a woman. Times are changing, so must _they_."

"Did you receive any pushback?" Oswald questioned darkly.

"None," said Sylvia smoothly. "A few disgruntled grumbling from the choir, but otherwise, full obedience. You have them nicely in line, Mr. Penguin."

"And the GCPD?" asked Oswald.

"Everyone that was in your pocket is still in your pocket," Sylvia reported easily. "All paid-up. If I were you, I'd certainly consider expanding your reign towards the inner-workings."

"Meaning?"

"Rookie cops," she clarified. "The older ones are jaded, sure, but the newer ones don't have a taste of the money they could get just by giving you the details of any new missions."

"The younger officers are fresh out of the academy," Oswald reminded. "That Strike Force for instance—"

"Give it another month. At this rate, most of them will have been shot or killed in the line of duty."

Oswald turned his head slightly so he could drink the rest of the glass empty. When he did, Sylvia took the empty glass and placed it on the table behind her. She returned her hands back to his shoulders, smiling when he appeared a little more relaxed, but otherwise troubled.

"You're settling in your role very well it sounds like," Oswald noted. "Better than I expected, actually."

"When you married me, you wanted more than just a wife." Sylvia said. "You know how I am, and you know how I operate. You were my co-worker—under Fish— then my fiance, then my boss, then my partner, then my husband. If you didn't want me doing all of this" (She referred to the meetings and debt collection on his behalf) "Then you would not have married me."

Oswald said incredulously, "Pigeon, you've got me all wrong. I'm not disappointed at all."

Sylvia cocked her head to the side.

"In fact, I'm impressed," he complimented. "You've done an amazing job in my stead."

"Well, don't expect me to keep it up for long," said Sylvia tiredly. "People have no idea how hard it is to be the Queen of Gotham. Lucky for me, I have a man who likes taking control."

Her words were suggestive in nature, and Oswald noticed it right off the bat.

Sylvia kissed him on the cheek, and then moved the kiss to his lips. Oswald responded to her, kissing her back.

He could feel how much she loved him. Every touch from her hand was a loving gesture; every kiss from her lips was passionate and affectionate. And in every moment they shared, Oswald could see there was more love in her eyes than she could verbally express.

She was a Queen fit for the throne, and sometimes, maybe the throne and Oswald himself may have been undeserving of such a royal monarch. Oswald could think of many moments when he was undeserving of such a fiery spirit but in each of those situations, Sylvia always chose him, didn't she?

Physically, he could be there for her. His body yearned for her—every part of him needed to be touching hers. But mentally and emotionally, he could not be. He worried more for the other half of his family, which, in turn, was inadvertently causing him to neglect his better half; Sylvia wasn't ignorant to the fact when he reluctantly pulled away from her sexual advances.

Sylvia looked at him, at first affronted. Then, she smiled, like she understood. Sylvia caressed his face, her thumb gently stroking and following his jaw line.

"I'm going to bed," Sylvia said quietly. "I love you, Ozzie."

"I love you too," Oswald whispered.

"Don't stay up too long. Even the King needs to sleep."

Oswald smiled in response.

They kissed once more before Oswald watched her leave the room. A minute passed before he asked Mr. Bell to get him another drink.

An hour went by.

Oswald glanced up to see a figure strolling into the Meeting Room, a mallet in the place where a hand used to be.

It was Butch. He sat down, looking more done with the bullshit than Oswald had ever seen.

"A mallet," Oswald noted, looking at it amusedly. "That's...useful."

"Don't even start," Butch tiredly warned.

"You bring good news, I hope?"

"I'm in. I'm in good."

"And?" Oswald interrogated. " _And_?"

"And I'm asking questions," said Butch earnestly. "But I told you. Galavan's a smart guy. If I ask too many questions, he'll be onto me."

Oswald placed the glass down, looking boldly at him.

"Butch, look at me."

Reluctantly, Butch met his eyes.

"Are you my servant?" Oswald questioned, knowing the answer.

"Yes," said Butch, his eyes and mouth twitched with the effort.

"Do you obey me in _all_ things?"

"Yes."

"Then why do you bring me excuses?" Oswald questioned harshly. "Go find my mother. Before I chop off your other hand."

"Yes, Boss." Butch said, nodding obediently. "I figure you should know though. Galavan's asking questions too."

Without looking at Butch, Oswald said dully, "Questions about what."

"Sylvia."

Oswald's eyes flickered to Butch suspiciously: "What _about_ her?"

"Nothing too particular," said Butch warily. "But it's weird. He's asked me how she's doing, and what has she recently been up to….what kind of restaurants she likes…."

"Why is he asking those questions?"

"I don't know. Galavan's not subtle, but...he's a creepy guy."

Oswald scowled, "Sylvia mentioned he has 'a thing' for her. He might be trying to distract you with these inquiries..."

"He doesn't know that I'm still working for you," Butch reminded. "So he can't be distracting me from anything. Maybe, he just likes Sylvia."

"Sylvia isn't interested," Oswald hissed. "Tell Galavan _that_ the next time you see him."

Butch sighed, getting to his feet. It was time to go back to the Galavan mansion anyway. Oswald watched Butch leave, glaring at his glass the entire time.

Galavan was inquiring about Sylvia. Why was he doing that? Was he really that interested in her?

And why wouldn't he be, Oswald pondered darkly. Look at her—Sylvia was beautiful. A real redheaded flame.

Oswald cleared his throat after drinking the rest of the wine that Mr. Bell had silently produced. Then, he stood and strolled into the hallway, stopped at the bedroom door.

He opened the door just enough where the light from the hallway shined in a little, but not enough to pour inside. In the doorway, Oswald stood, seeing Sylvia lying on her stomach, her head tilted to the right; her hair puddled around her head.

Galavan wanted his wife.

Just that thought alone made Oswald want to spit. He was suddenly hot beneath the collar; he felt as though the temperature in the room had been turned up thirty degrees just in the past minute he'd stood, seething. Was it not enough that Theo Galavan had ahold of his mother in captivity, that the man would add insult to injury to even _think_ about asking his men about her?

Sylvia stirred in her sleep, shifting underneath the blankets.

Oswald licked his lips in thought, knowing all too well that Sylvia would have no other man but himself, but would that change over time? It dawned on him a few times in the past that she could get bored with him… _would_ she fall out of love with him and fall for another man? Or woman…

It could happen, Oswald relented.

But he'd be damned for it to happen without putting up a fight.

Oswald closed the door, walking into the room completely. As he did, his clothes slowly fell to the floor as he undressed down to nothing.

He hadn't felt so angry when he'd come into the room to see her sleeping. But just _thinking_ of someone being with his beloved, casting him aside like he was a nobody again was enough to make his blood boil. He stopped at the foot of the bed, hearing Sylvia's soft sleeping sounds become something more.

A moan.

And with his eyes adjusting to the darkness, but the moonlight casting shadows through the blinds of the curtains, Oswald could see a little more than just the silhouette of her body underneath the sheets. Her hips danced, and wriggled; one hand was against the headboard, fingers spread; the other was hidden beneath her.

Was she…?

Oswald smirked. The wine in his system started titillating more than just his jealous tendencies. He knelt on the foot of the bed, taking the covers in his hands and moved them slowly—so as to not disturb Sylvia's sexual musings.

It wasn't clear to him if she was asleep or just entranced by the heat of the moment, but whatever the cause for her distraction, Oswald was grateful. For when he pulled the covers off the porcelain body of his beautiful wife, Oswald was pleased to see her hand between her legs; he watched her body move in rhythm with the slow dipping of her fingers inside her cunt.

"You, Galavan..." Sylvia mumbled.

Oswald was ready to cause some massive destruction before he heard her next words…

"I'll fucking kill you…." Sylvia muttered again.

Oswald grinned widely. It didn't surprise him that the mere thought of murdering the man that caused both of their lives to become misery would make Sylvia horny. This was a woman who would fuck him after she killed three people in one night, not to mention how eager she'd been to fuck him before blackmailing Commissioner Loeb into hiring Jim Gordon as a detective again...even then, Sylvia had been certain that he and Victor were going to kill Loeb—how disappointed she'd been when Sylvia found out that they were there to threaten, not to maim.

Her mind certainly was devious.

Seeing Sylvia finger herself to the idea of killing Galavan made Oswald groan. His hand wrapped around his cock, pumping slow.

She turned on her back, thrusting her middle and ring finger inside her cunt vigorously. Her eyes remained shut, her lips parted slightly as she desperately tried to get herself off.

"Right there..." Sylvia moaned.

Oswald stared at her, mouth open in deep-rooted amazement. Just a few hours before, his sex drive had been lacking...not that anyone could blame him. Now, as he watched Sylvia in all her curvaceous glory try to get herself off, Oswald's worries were out the door.

Oswald leaned forward, lying next to her on his side. She needed an extra push, that one trigger to make herself come.

He touched his lips to her ear, whispering, "You're a dirty little pigeon, aren't you, Sylvia."

As though sprung from her trance, Sylvia's eyes shot open, and she turned her head towards him, taken aback. Oswald smirked at her.

"Osw—"

"Don't stop," he ordered. "I want to watch you."

To encourage her, Oswald kissed her lips, slipping his tongue between them to capture hers. Sylvia continued to finger herself, her face and chest flushed red with a little mixture of heat, desire, and modesty.

Sylvia looked at him, noticing he was naked, and seeing how stiff his cock was just by having watched her. She hadn't any idea how long he'd been there, nor had she even heard him come in. Under his intense, hungry gaze, Sylvia blindly followed her orgasm, every part of her desperately calling for it.

"You're close, aren't you, Pigeon?" Oswald teased, licking her earlobe.

"Yes!" Sylvia whimpered.

"I can tell. Your body is starting to shake," Oswald whispered.

He snatched her hand that was melded between her legs, and she nearly cried.

"How far did you get in your fantasy, my little murderess," he asked.

"Oswald, please..." Sylvia begged.

He knew what she wanted.

"Do you want to me to help you come?"

"Yes..." Sylvia breathed.

He knew how she wanted it.

"Do you want me to take control?"

"More than anything."

He kissed the hand he currently held, licking the excitement from her fingers like the decadent dessert it was. Sylvia bit her bottom lip, watching him.

Oswald moved between her legs, groaning when his cock made contact with her wet, slippery entrance. Sylvia wrapped her arms around him, her hands palming his backside, her nails digging, knowing it would only spur him on.

Slowly, he rubbed the head of his cock between her wet folds, rolling his hips to tease her. Sylvia's back arched, pushing her hardened nips against his chest. Her ankles lifted and linked around his own, so every part of her body made contact with his.

"I love you more than anything in the world," Oswald whispered. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yes," she whispered, like a prayer.

Sylvia lifted her head and pulled him into a kiss. He returned it eagerly.

He pushed inside of her, groaning when the muscles inside her cunt contracted around him. Their bodies were close together, his balance relying solely on his forearms and elbows.

He wanted her, fast and hard. But first...he'd have her begging for him.

She wasn't clueless to his game either. Sylvia's cunt clenched when he pulled out and her hips lifted to meet his when he thrusted back in. She let out a soft whimper when Oswald lowered his mouth to her earlobe, biting; in response, her fingernails dug into the muscle between his shoulder blades.

"Harder," Sylvia begged. "Please...harder."

"I know," Oswald uttered, kissing her cheek. "But patience is a virtue, dear."

Sylvia let out a whine, agonized by his slow thrusts.

And god, did he enjoy it. Her expressions of pleasure outweighed her small cries of impatience. He relished every sound.

To quell her whimpers, Oswald slid a hand between them and, with the pad of his thumb, he began to massage circles around her clit.

"Mmm…." Sylvia sighed. "Goddamnit, Oswald. Stop..."

"I know you like being teased," Oswald told her. "Stop pretending you don't."

"Fuck you..." Sylvia moaned.

Her back arched when he rubbed over her clit especially hard, and her hips violently jerked upwards.

"You said you wanted me to take control, did you not?" Oswald questioned.

"Yes..."

"That is what I'm doing, Pet," Oswald condescended.

It wasn't lost on either of them that while in bed, Sylvia loved being scolded and patronized. Sylvia became submissive, looking up at him reproachfully. She lifted her head, and licked his jaw imploringly, seeking out repentance.

When it came down to it, he was still her boss and she was still his subservient.

Still, his thrusts were nice and slow. Her body tensed around and against him, her thigh muscles twitched sporadically. Oswald could see the desire beneath her hooded eyelids, how she was slowly becoming undone.

Sylvia whimpered, "I want to come..."

"And you will." Oswald said. He lowered his lips to her ear, whispering, "But not just yet."

Sylvia looked at him, and there was almost a true terror in the way she did. Oswald continued the slow agonizing thrusts, relishing the way she impatiently groaned, but that inner submissive was out to play. She followed his movements eagerly.

He reached down between them again and played with her clit. Sylvia let out another whine, gritting her teeth when he pinched it.

"FUCK!" Sylvia cursed.

Oswald covered her mouth with his hand, smirking when she glared at him, narrowing her eyes. But it was well-deserved. He, too, was getting impatient; blood was pounding in his cock and he was ready to do a little pounding himself.

When Sylvia reached out to touch him, Oswald grabbed her wrists in his free hand, and pinned them above her head.

Sylvia looked at him like he was a god.

And that was all he needed.

Oswald quickened his pace, shoving his cock inside of her. Sylvia's eager, pleasurable screams were stifled behind Oswald's palm. With all of his anger and (most recently, his past jealous tendencies), he thrusted inside Sylvia, and had her writhing beneath him. Her screams and his grunts filled the bedroom and when he came inside of her, Sylvia was thrown into a strong, convulsive orgasm.

Her body rocked the bed, and he only became a little concerned when every muscle in her extremities seized, her back arched high, and in a minute, every part of her relaxed. Her breathing, which had been constricted before, became small gasps of air; her eyes fluttered open, and a small smile praised her mouth.

"I fucking love it when you're rough," Sylvia mumbled, looking at him with heart eyes. "I like being your mood outlet."

Oswald sat up, leaning his back against the headboard, breathless. He couldn't agree more.

During their rendezvous, he didn't think once about the stressors of his life. With Sylvia, he could forget them, but when their time passed and reality struck once more, Oswald would soon become filled with worry and anger once more.

The same worry passed over his facial features, and Sylvia noticed it. How could she not?

"Did Butch say anything?" Sylvia asked. "I heard him come in."

"Nothing useful," Oswald responded.

Sylvia licked his cheek. Oswald looked at her, surprised. But when the moment passed, he couldn't help but smile at her.


	35. The Hardest Chapter To Write

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Hardest Chapter To Write

Author's Note: Exactly what the title says. :(

* * *

It had been twenty-four hours since Butch had gone back to the Galavan Mansion. He regularly came back to report his findings (or more recently, his lack of). While Oswald remained seated in the Meeting Room, Sylvia paced back and forth.

"Where is he," Sylvia muttered. "He should be back by now. What if they found him out—oh, I knew I should have been the one to go in. But then again, he _has_ been fairly cautious, maybe he went out for a fucking hamburger or something and the workers got his order wrong so they had to make it again..."

Oswald looked at her, split between allowing her to pace and calming her down. It was a hard decision, considering he had the same concerns….well, the fast food dive might have been a little out there, but otherwise, the same. He wasn't so vocal of his thoughts as she clearly was.

"He drove there in that _stupid_ Honda," said Sylvia breathlessly as she continued to pace around the room, her heels clicking the hardwood floor. "Maybe he got in a wreck, or he forgot to check the oil and it finally burnt out—you know, I keep telling him to put that fucking car in the fucking workshop, but noooo, he says 'I know my car, Liv, I've got this'. Well, if he comes in and says that the car finally blew up on him, let me tell you what—He'll be in a _world_ of 'I told you so'."

"Sylvia..." Oswald began, but her rant continued.

"Forget the burger or the oil fire," she added, giving him a second's look before turning around and pacing in the reverse direction. "I'll bet you he finally found a hot date. Instead of coming back to this mansion, he probably decided to catch a little tail, do some dating—and what are the odds that this date of his went well...it could have gone badly...the guy doesn't exactly scream 'charm'. Have you ever seen Butch try to flirt with a girl? It's like he's a gorilla, a more _lively_ and _charming_ gorilla, but he'd be better off slinging his shit at another handsome gorilla. He's got character, I tell you that much, Oswald. But other than that, zero charm. Zero."

"Sylvia, sit down, you're going to wear a hole in the floor," Oswald ordered.

"I'm too nervous," said Sylvia. "My nerves are getting to me. They're all jangled and mangled, and any other word you can think of. And it doesn't help that I drank a pot of coffee this morning—I was so tired this morning that I decided to drink _another_ pot of coffee. I'm all fucking jittery….oh, hey, when did we get this painting?"

Oswald let out out a sigh of relief when Sylvia stopped to admire a crudely drawn but famous art piece, created by the artist by the name of Picasso. It was abstract art, and Oswald nor the vendor could figure out what it was or what it meant, but it'd finally revealed its purpose: to make Oswald's wife calmer and less talkative.

Honestly, the woman could talk for ages.

Sylvia cocked her head to the side, looking like one of the admirers of an art gallery who was trying their hardest to figure out what the art piece was supposed to be. Apparently, she was stumped too.

"It looks like a dog," Sylvia uttered, rubbing her chin, perplexed.

"If you say so, dear." Oswald mumbled, rolling his eyes.

"Or a bird. It looks more like a bird….but what kind of bird...now, that's the mystery."

Oswald stood and faced the fireplace, more content to revel in its orange and yellow flames. Sylvia continued pacing once she'd tired of the painting.

She wore all black; from her off-the-shoulder long-sleeve shirt, to the knee-high skirt, to her mid-calf, black, laced boots. Despite the worry on her face, Oswald could say that his wife looked stunning in anything she wore—even baggy sweats...even the look of worry looked good on her.

"Butch should be here," Sylvia said quietly. "He's been gone a _really_ long time."

Oswald glanced at her.

"Aren't you worried?" Sylvia asked incredulously.

"I am," he said calmly.

"Well, try being worried with me. It might relax me a little."

"If I allow myself to panic like you," said Oswald with the same amount of calm, "then we _both_ will be panicking One of us needs to keep a level head."

"So we'll panic in shifts," said Sylvia; she was fidgeting with her fingers. "I'll take the first shift."

Oswald suppressed a small smile of amusement. Even when Sylvia was under stress or—as of right now—in a world of panic, she still never failed to amuse him. Her sense of humor definitely had a hold on him.

"I'd tell you not to worry but I'm given to believe that won't stop you from the fact," said Oswald knowingly.

"You can read me like a fucking book," said Sylvia nervously. "Look, Oz. What if Butch _doesn't_ come back. I mean, Galavan and his sister are fucking sadists. What if they just killed him _on sight_. Boom, bam, thank you, ma'am. No warning, no ill-advised funny comments, no last words. And, like, what if they're on their way _here_ to get rid of us. Once Galavan wins the fucking mayor election, he won't need us anymore, you know. He won't need you. He won't definitely need me—it'll be a closed casket, for sure. Definitely…."

Oswald sighed deeply.

"Sylvia, stop talking," Oswald told her.

"I can't help it. I talk when I'm nervous. I'm nervous when I talk."

Oswald held her hand, pulling her to him in front of the fire place.

"Look at me." Oswald told her.

"What if they dump our bodies in the river," Sylvia continued fretfully. "Jim will never know I'm dead. No funeral, no post-marked, over-due bills. Our existence will be wiped away, just like the Waynes did to the Dumas, and we will never have existed. We'll be a town where the fucking tumbleweeds don't even blow—and you know the Galavans are capable of that, they're fucking insane! And I know what fucking crazy looks like: My sister-in-law was going to be Barbara Kean for fuck's sake—"

"Pigeon, look at me. Right now."

Sylvia looked at Oswald. He gathered her hands in his.

"Nothing is going to happen to you," Oswald said. "Nothing. Do you understand that?"

"I know, but—"

"I said 'do you understand'." Oswald repeated more firmly.

Sylvia bit her bottom lip, her eyebrows furrowed in fear.

Fear looked odd on Sylvia. Oswald realized that he rarely ever saw her panic. She always somehow kept it hidden, locked under whatever capsule that hid her other human emotions. She only ever allowed people to see her happiness and her anger. Only _he_ was permitted to see her panic and her sadness. And this, alone, made him love her even more.

"You're safe with me," Oswald reassured softly. "Nothing and no one will hurt you."

"You can't promise me that," said Sylvia, shaking her head. "I know you mean well, I do. But you can't promise something like that. But I appreciate the sentiment, sweetheart."

Oswald brought her towards him, locking his arms around her back. Her head lied on his chest, and she seemed to calm once she heard his heart beat. The crackling of the fire, his breathing and the small thump-thump she felt against his neck were the only sensations in the room.

That was until Butch stumbled in, looking like he'd been thrown through the woodwork full of thorns at hyper speed. He limped forward, cringing when he finally leaned against the table. Oswald let go of Sylvia, who looked just as concerned that Butch appeared the way he did..

"Butch!" Oswald said, surprised but eager to see him. "What has happened?"

"I found your mother," Butch managed, wincing.

Oswald was happy.

"Where?" he asked.

"In a warehouse," he answered, "by the port. But they caught me looking..."

Then Oswald was pissed, taking Butch by the collar of his shirt and nearly shaking him.

"You _half-wit_ , _if they kill my mother—_ "

"But they don't know I'm here!" Butch interrupted, raising his hand and mallet. "The tiger lady, she wanted to take her time with me, so she chained me to a wall" (That's a little extreme," Sylvia noted) "And I got out. We gotta go _now_."

Oswald smiled, elated over all.

Sylvia raised her eyebrows and let out a long, slow, shaky sigh. It was amazing how many emotions and personalities Oswald could go through in a single minute.

"Yes...yes, yes," Oswald began, chuckling a little. "Very good, Butch." (He straightened Butch's suit from where he'd ruffled him up earlier). "Your loyalty will be rewarded handsomely. I swear it. Rest here for a minute…."

Oswald encouraged Butch to have a seat.

"I'll gather the troops," he said.

"I'm coming with you to the mansion," Sylvia quipped.

"You most certainly are not," Oswald retorted.

"I did _not_ learn all this shit from Mr. Bell and Victor Zsasz to _not_ incorporate it in my day-to-day life as a gangster," Sylvia argued. "You want a wife, fine, but I'm the motherfucking Queen of Gotham, and I refuse to stand by—"

"Fine," Oswald interrupted, holding his hand up to her. "You want to come, _fine_. I'm learning that it's just easier not to argue with you..."

"It's about fucking time," Sylvia responded, crossing her arms. She glanced at Butch, smiling, "How's it going, Butchy."

"Stay here, do _not_ leave without me," Oswald ordered. "Do you understand me?"

"I understand."

"Good." Oswald sighed, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. He moved to gather the troops.

"You might want to get armed," Butch advised, side-glancing Sylvia warily.

"Think we'll run into trouble, do you?" she said suspiciously.

"For once, I'm not just 'thinking'. I know we will." He said darkly.

"Geez, Butch. That's a little ominous—even for you."

"I'm just saying."

"Right. I'll get ready—but do not leave without me."

"I'm not going anywhere." Butch said, waving his mallet at her.

Sylvia quickly left to the bedroom, where she raided her wardrobe. Under the clothes and shoes, she lifted the panel of the floorboard and revealed a stock of weapons to include knives and a variety of hand guns. One hand gun was placed between the waistband of her skirt and her bare skin; one knife was slid between her boot and ankle. Another was strapped against her inner thigh. In her hand, she would carry a hand gun.

Sylvia strolled back to the Meeting Room, noticing that two men, Stanley and Josh, were standing, ready and at attention.

"You're coming along, huh?" Sylvia said, looking at Josh sternly.

"I refuse to leave you alone," said Josh quietly. "You're not going in there with just Mr. Penguin's people. You'll need one of yours too."

"You're a kid," Sylvia reminded.

Josh looked stubborn, making his chest more poofy and trying to make himself look taller. He wanted to prove himself.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Sylvia warned.

"I don't have any family," said Josh. "You're my family. I figured I'd rather get killed _protecting_ my family."

"You have an interesting take on the word," said Sylvia darkly. "But if you want to come, fine by me. I doubt we'll run into much trouble anyway—what with Butch being the informant, and all of us headed there like cattle over a fucking river. The only thing we're missing is a fucking shepherd."

Sylvia looked him over, noticing the only thing that Josh held was a knife.

"You'll need something bigger than that, kiddo," said Sylvia, tossing him her hand gun. "You know how to shoot?"

"I used to shoot at squirrels as a kid," said Josh quietly.

"Humans aren't squirrels."

"But they move slower...and that'll make a huge difference."

Butch glanced at Sylvia incredulously: "Where did you find this kid?"

"On the streets," said Sylvia. "Most of them just need some place to belong. Ain't that right?" (Josh beamed with praise.)

Oswald returned to the Room with two other men. Bullets were placed on the table while the men loaded up their weapons. Oswald glanced at Josh curiously, glancing at Sylvia in return.

"This is Joshua," said Sylvia, inclining her head to the young man in question. "He's coming with."

"Using your umbrella boy as back-up," Butch muttered, glaring at Sylvia.

"You'd be surprised how skilled Umbrella Boys are," Sylvia returned coolly. "If Fish tracked that fact, she wouldn't be dead in the ocean, would she, Butch-y Boy?"

Butch glared, but dulled it as he averted his gaze while Oswald looked at Sylvia—he didn't think it was possible to love her any more than he did, but his heart swelled five times bigger when he heard her speak. No doubt, she was referring to him and his accomplishments. Sensing the tension but admiring the aspect, Josh quickly gathered an extra clip of ammo and shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans.

"Are you sure about this?" Oswald asked Sylvia as they headed out of the mansion, followed by their rag-tag team.

"About killing Galavan and his sister—absolutely," said Sylvia enthusiastically. "Your mother has spent enough time with them. After this, we should all go out to eat. I'm thinking some place with menus that have pictures of food."

Oswald side-glanced at her, but was satisfied with her answer.

* * *

The warehouse in question was surrounded by other warehouses. It was curious how Butch had even found Gertrud, but leave it to the man of remarkable intelligence to reveal that he had some unremarkable detective skills.

Stanley and Josh followed closely behind Sylvia, who strode with the same pace alongside Butch. Every now and then, Butch looked like he wanted to admit some infidelity; Sylvia noticed that he wasn't twitching like he used to, like when he was given an order or told to do something he honestly didn't want to do.

Also, he looked apologetic whenever he and Sylvia made eye contact.

"You okay, Butch?" Sylvia asked quietly as they made their way to the warehouse on foot.

He nodded.

It wasn't a long walk, but since they didn't allow cars on the port, it was a bit of a stroll. Sylvia held a gun in her hand, much like Butch, Stanley and Josh. From time to time, Sylvia glanced over her shoulder to make sure that Josh was still tracking behind her; the closer they inched towards the warehouse, the more reluctant she felt to have him with her.

Not because she doubted his ability, but because she truly did feel responsible for him. He said she was his only family. Not Penguin nor Butch made his family list; He'd once told her that he looked at her like a mother. At first, Sylvia thought it was a sweet sentiment...but now she wondered if it was more than affection.

"Are you sure this is it, Butch?" Oswald asked, not looking at the man.

"I'm sure."

"Once we make sure my mother is safe," he said, "We go after Galavan and his sister. They're going to _pay_ for what they've done."

Sylvia strode slightly behind Oswald, her eyes looking every where but in front of her. She expected an ambush—anything at this point.

"You know you remind me of your brother," said Butch softly.

"That's an odd sentiment to express just moments before we find Gertrud," Sylvia pointed out, glancing at him curiously.

"Just in the way you act," he commented. "You have the same reaction to little noises, like something might come out and attack you."

"Well, he's a cop," said Sylvia. "And I get myself into this kind of thing at least once a week, so I say my reactions are self-explanatory; genetics have nothing to do with it."

Stanley and Josh followed up on Sylvia. Butch pointed to a particular warehouse and they all followed suit.

Walking in, Sylvia smelled a distinct odor: mainly garbage waste and running sewage water. It leaked from the ceiling—bad plumbing. Josh, Stanley, and Sylvia slowly edged inside while Oswald hurried inside once he saw his mother through the caged door.

Sylvia grinned widely when Gertrud's squeal of happiness could be heard.

"Mother!" Oswald called.

"Oswald!" Gertrud called back, grinning just as happily. She stood and held her hands out through the holes of the barred door, embracing him as best as she could. Looking over his shoulder, she cooed, "Little Sylvie—you're both here, you've both come! Oswald, is that really you? Your sweet face, like a vision!"

"I'm taking you home," said Oswald reassuringly. "Okay?" He stepped back, retrieving a pair of metal, steel bolt cutters from Stanley.

As he stepped forward to unlock the cage, the fluorescent pale lights clicked and were turned on to reveal Galavan and Tabitha standing in the flesh.

"And there I was," said Galavan arrogantly, "Thinking you understood the meaning of consequences."

Sylvia, Stanley, and Josh cocked their weapons, aiming it at the pair.

"Consequences, yes," said Oswald, looking at them with hatred in his eyes. "I assure you that my understanding of consequences will be made quite clear once my mother is outside."

Tabitha said sweetly, "But we've had such fun together."

Oswald and Sylvia glared at her. If looks could kill…

"My sister gets attached to her playthings," said Galavan apologetically. "So I must insist she stay. And those bolt cutters simply won't do…the only way out of that" (he cocked his head to the steel cage) "is with this..." (he dangled a key in front of Oswald, like it was a worm on a hook.)

"Very well," said Oswald (none too disappointed). "Butch, shoot them both in the head, and grab the key."

"Oswald!" Gertrud whimpered.

"I'm sorry, Mother, but what they've done to you will not stand."

Crickets…

Sylvia, Stanley, and Josh glanced at Butch expectantly. When nothing happened, Oswald shouted, "I gave you an order, now shoot them both in the head!"

Butch held his gun out, aiming it at Tabitha and Galavan. Then, unexpectedly, turned his gun on Stanley and Josh, shooting them (as ordered) both in the head. He grabbed Sylvia, and without missing a beat, disarmed her, including the gun that was pressed against her back, throwing both clear across the room. His arm was wrapped around her neck, his gun now cocked and aimed at her head.

Gertrud squeaked in fear while Sylvia, the angry woman that she was, spit curses at Butch. Her eyes cast downward at Josh who was dead on the ground, his hand still holding the weapon she'd given him only an hour beforehand.

"You fucking traitor!" Sylvia shouted furiously, "you fucking—mm!"

Butch silenced her, pushing his arm up to cover her mouth. His forearm was so big, she couldn't even gauge her teeth over his skin to take a bite out of him.

"No," Oswald muttered. "No, no...that's not possible..."

Sylvia tried to reach down to her boot and get her knife but Butch thrust his arm up, keeping her still.

"You have to obey me," Oswald said helplessly. "You have to!"

"That time has passed," said Butch unhappily. Lifting his eyes over Oswald's shoulder to the Galavan duo, he added, "They fixed me."

"Tabby is well-versed in the protocols of conditioning," Galavan said lazily, smirking at them.

"There's always a trigger word implanted in the process," said Tabitha, smirking sideways at her brother. "All I had to do was get him to remember what it was. I admit, it took a few tries."

"And now…." Galavan drawled. "Here we are."

Oswald dropped the bolt cutters, realizing just how stuck in the mud he was. Sylvia continued to struggle to get out of Butch's grip but for all her training, Butch was just too big.

"Please." Oswald said shakily. "I can still be valuable. You'll see."

"I so wish that were true," said Galavan.

"Then kill me if you must, but let her go," said Oswald.

"No!" Gertrud squeaked.

"Mm-mm!" Sylvia growled.

"I'm begging you," Oswald said helplessly.

Tabitha scowled, "That doesn't look like begging to me."

"Indeed," agreed Galavan. "Half-hearted, at best."

They both looked at each other as though they equally shared the same inside joke before turning to Oswald expectantly.

Oswald exhaled a deep sigh before awkwardly lurching forward to get on his knees, looking up at Galavan and his sister, clasping his hands together.

Galavan smirked at Sylvia saying, "See, Mrs. Cobblepot? Do you see what your husband is truly made of?"

Sylvia narrowed her eyes at him, letting out a snarl. Galavan couldn't hear what she had said, but he seemed to get the gist. He reverted his eyes back down to Oswald, who desperately appealed to his humanity.

"Please," he begged. "I'll do anything. Anything you want."

A moment passed.

Galavan sighed deeply, saying, "Perhaps she _has_ served her purpose."

"Hmph."

Galavan turned to his sister: "Don't pout. You still have the former mayor."

"But he's so dull," whispered Tabitha. "All he does is moan half the time."

To emphasize his order, Galavan held out the key. Tabitha grumbled under her breath before she moved to let Gertrud out. Once she did, Oswald's mother quickly moved forward and Oswald stood to his feet, gathering her in his arms. They embraced happily.

Butch lowered his arm and Sylvia glared at him.

"You're a deceitful, fucking troll, you know that," Sylvia seethed.

"You know I had no choice," Butch said.

"That doesn't make me hate you any less. You killed Joshua."

"He was just your Umbrella Boy," Butch murmured. "You'll find another."

"And what about Galavan? You don't think he won't find another brainwashed, dipshit like you? He'll dispose of you the same fucking way you disposed of these people," said Sylvia harshly. "The only difference—For what it's worth, fuck-rod—Josh was family."

"I told you everything would be okay," Oswald said happily, holding his mom. "And it will be!"

Sylvia saw it happen before Oswald realized it a moment later. Tabitha lunged forward, and stabbed Gertrud in the back. Butch's eyes widened, but he immediately pulled Sylvia back; he really fought to keep her restrained as Sylvia screamed.

Oswald embraced his mother, and he saw the knife sticking out of her.

"No!" Oswald shouted. "NO!"

His mother became dead weight, losing her balance; he lowered her down to the ground, and held her in his arms. Sylvia managed to get out of Butch's grip only for a moment, stripping the knife from her thigh and storming towards Tabitha before Butch lunged forward, dropping his own gun to wrap his arms around Sylvia. He hoisted her up and pulled her back.

"MOTHERFUCKERS!" Sylvia cried.

"Put a gag on that woman for God's sake," Galavan sighed. He glanced at Tabitha tiredly, saying, "She doesn't stop talking, does she?"

Butch stifled Sylvia's angry cries with his hands; she continued kicking, trying to get out of his grip. But to no avail.

Oswald sat on his knees with Gertrud in his arms; perhaps she couldn't feel the pain, but she seemed to know something was off. Oswald was crying.

"What is wrong?" she asked gingerly. "You look so sad."

"Nothing's wrong, Mother," Oswald comforted, trying to put on that tough front. "Nothing at all. We're together now….and that's all that matters. That's all that ever mattered, right?"

"Ever since you were a little baby," agreed Gertrud, nodding. "My little Cobblepot."

And that broke the tough front.

"I'm sorry," Oswald sobbed. "This is my fault. This is my fault, please forgive me, I'm so sorry."

"For what?" Gertrud returned. "You were always such a good boy!"

The light left her eyes, and all that was left were the remnants of what used to be. As her body became nothing but dead weight, Oswald cried deeply, slowly lowering her body to the floor. He leaned over, kissed her forehead, and wept. Sylvia had stopped struggling to go after Tabitha; instead, she now struggled to try and meet her husband on the floor to comfort him. However, Butch grunted and kept her back.

Apathetically, Galavan looked at Butch, saying, "Kill them" (he referred to Oswald and Sylvia) "and dump the bodies...anywhere."

The Galavan duo started to walk away.

But Oswald's anger was back.

"You don't have the stomach to kill me yourself!" Oswald growled, his voice echoed off the walls, causing Tabitha and Theo to stop in their tracks. "No _wonder_ your family was run out of town. You come from a long line of cowards!"

Galavan looked at his sister before he strode forward, saying, "Fine...fine..."

He bent down at the waist to gather Butch's gun that was dropped in the process of him trying to restrain Sylvia.

"Who should I kill first..." Galavan hummed. "You..." He pointed the gun at Oswald. "Or perhaps what's left of your dismal family, hm?"

He pointed the gun at Sylvia, who flinched from the metal end. The anger in Oswald's eyes briefly flickered to that of fear, but that rage...it remained.

"If you kill her," Oswald said darkly. "You best be ready to aim the gun at me too."

"You couldn't stop Tabby from putting a knife in your mother's back," Galavan chuckled. "What makes you think you could stop a bullet?"

As a point, Galavan gestured for Butch to let go of Sylvia, who stumbled when Butch threw her forward. When Galavan reached to grab her arm, Sylvia pulled back, but he had a lot stronger grip than what she'd expected. He pulled her to him, her back flush against his chest. He snaked his arm around her waist, keeping her in what felt like a python's embrace.

"How quick can you move, Penguin?" Galavan taunted, placing the gun to Sylvia's neck.

Oswald gritted his teeth, eyes blazing and he started to move. Galavan cocked the gun and pressed it underneath Sylvia's jaw. He stopped in place.

Instinctively, she tried to turn her head—not that it would allow her to evade the impending death if the gun went off.

Galavan kissed Sylvia's earlobe, whispering, "Darling, did I ever mention that I still want you on my team? I think we could make a fabulous couple, you and me. Me as the new Mayor." He kissed her neck. "You, as my _beautiful_ first lady...We'd make quite the power couple, don't you think?"

Oswald glared at Galavan. Hatred had never been more transparent on him.

Smirking, Galavan moved forward, bending down so Sylvia had to as well.

"Any last words before I take your precious 'pigeon' with me for….safekeeping?" Galavan asked.

"Yes." Oswald breathed.

"Oh?"

Oswald slowly withdrew the knife from Gertrud's back.

"I'm going to kill you!" Oswald seethed.

He grabbed Sylvia's shoulder, pushing her down to the floor as he sliced the knife across Galavan's neck.

"Move!" Oswald shouted.

Sylvia got to her feet.

When Butch lurched forward to get Sylvia, Oswald pushed her out of the way and stuck the knife into Butch's thigh. The man grunted, disarmed, distracted.

Tabitha aimed the gun and shot after them, missing them by a hair.

Both of them crashed through the window.

Sylvia dropped onto the ground, rolling on her back before getting to her feet. She caught Oswald when he was half-way down, catching half his weight so he needn't fall on _his_ back. Together, they ran forward and off the port. Sylvia sprinted ahead, catching the nearest cabbie, chucking him out of the driver's seat.

"HEY!" The cab driver shouted.

"Get the fuck out of here or I'll skin you alive!" Sylvia snapped.

The driver raised both of his hands and said quickly, "No problem, no problem, Yeeeeesh…." And ran in the opposite direction.

Sylvia opened the passenger side where Oswald hopped in, closing the door while Sylvia sat in the driver's seat, stomping the accelerator, speeding away.

With the cops sure to flitter about after learning that Oswald Cobblepot had attempted to kill the now-Mayor, going to the mansion wasn't the best idea. People will have assumed that they'd gone underground, and that's exactly what they were going to do.

Under the Falcone mansion were tunnels and rooms that no one but the crime families knew about—and since Falcone wasn't playing the game anymore, only the Cobblepot Crime family knew.

Sylvia drove the cab half a block away before ditching it; she and Oswald ran up to the mansion. She flipped a switch and kicked the welcome mat that was placed in front of the entrance off the doorstep so a stairwell began to mechanically appear.

Down the steps they descended.

Now safe from prying eyes, Oswald sat on the concrete floor, his back and head resting against the wall, while Sylvia flicked the switch on a pillar; the stairwell that had appeared now began to fold against the wall as though it never existed.

Gabe, Mr. Bell, Dagger, and Chilly met them underground, looking surprised to see them in such a haggard state.

"What happened, Lady Cobblepot?" Mr. Bell questioned, his eyes lifting to watch the rest of the steps of the stairwell disappear into the wall.

"Galavan's what happened." said Sylvia harshly. "The fucker killed her."

Gabe's mouth opened in shock—he'd danced with the lovely woman a few times, and she had even taught him (and Sylvia too) how to ballroom dance. He grumbled and scrunched his face angrily, wanting immediate gratification. Mr. Bell glanced at Dagger and Chilly, who were just as shocked that Galavan would actually go through with it.

"Mr. Bell," Sylvia called as she strode through the various rooms, coming back to the original with a handset—it appeared to be a wireless land line phone, but it wasn't tracked.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Where's Henry, and the others?" asked Sylvia.

"At the club," Mr. Bell reported. "Do you want them to—"

"No, I don't. Make sure they stay there. Tell them not to say anything about what's happened tonight," Sylvia ordered. "Galavan will go to the press with this, and they'll do everything but eat him alive."

"Do you want them to go into hiding as well?"

"No." Sylvia said, shaking her head. "They need to stay at the club."

"But Galavan might come after them, Lady Cobblepot," Mr. Bell insisted.

"He's not after _me…_.or my people," said Sylvia. "He's after the election, and after _him_ " (she nodded her head to Oswald who remained on the floor, his head bowed in his hands) "and I don't need my brother asking me questions too early on. If he sees the club deserted, it'll prompt his captain to be more interrogative. And I don't need to talk to that man."

Mr. Bell nodded dutifully.

"Anything else?" he asked before leaving for the stairwell.

"Get Victor," Sylvia requested.

"Any message to pass along in any case he asks why he should come?" said Mr. Bell.

"He won't need one," said Sylvia. "He'll come because I've asked him too."

"Yes, ma'am."

"When you call him," said Sylvia, "call him with this phone—it isn't traceable."

With that said, Mr. Bell took the wireless phone, bowed, and then left towards the other tunnels.

"Liv…." Gabe began.

Sylvia put a hand up in front of him, saying, "I know you want to talk to me about what just happened, Gabriel, and I appreciate it, but I can't."

"But Liv…."

" _What_?" Sylvia snapped.

Gabe opened his mouth to speak, but it was like all the words he had ever thought to use were suddenly sucked out of him like a vacuum. After a moment of trying to formulate what he wanted to say, he nodded dutifully and allowed her to continue moving about the tunnels.

"Where's Butch?" asked Dagger.

"He's defected," Sylvia answered coldly.

"What does that mean?" asked Dagger.

Chilly gave him a look, saying, "The fucker split. He's not a part of us anymore. He's on the other team. He's a traitor—"

"Okay!" Dagger snapped. "I get it!"

"Well, you weren't getting it before!" Chilly retorted.

" _ **Shut up**_!" Sylvia shouted, rounding on them.

Gabe, Dagger, and Chilly looked at her quickly and all three large, stocky men startled at her tone. In turn, she gave them each a task they would carry out and they proceeded with little delay, in hopes that Sylvia wouldn't shout at them again. A bullet wouldn't terrify any of them, but Sylvia's icy stare would turn them cold in a matter of seconds.

While everyone did what they needed to do, Sylvia let out a shaky sigh, turning to see that Oswald hadn't moved from his corner against the wall.

"Oz..." Sylvia began, moving towards him.

"Don't." Oswald said quickly, holding his hands out in front of him.

She reached out to touch him, but he moved away from her.

"Don't touch me." Oswald murmured. "Please. Just leave me be...for now."

It was so hard to obey that order when all she wanted to do (not just for him but for herself) was to sit beside her husband and comfort him. He would hold himself to a high standard, to put on the tough mask when he was in front of his men, but Sylvia had always been able to see his softer, gentler side.

Then again, he'd had to beg in front of her for his mother's life. He had to watch Galavan potentially threaten to take the love of his life away from him, even see him put his hands on her. There were many things he had to do and yet, nearly none of it had paid off in the long run.

"Oswald..." Sylvia began.

"Please." Oswald said quietly, looking down at his knees.

"Okay." Sylvia said, nodding. "Okay."

She walked away, only stopping to see him cradle himself in his arms.

What the others could see was the King of Gotham. What she saw was a son who'd just witnessed his mother being killed in front of him. And it hurt.

She moved through the tunnels, listening to the rats that moved through the vent, and the occasional drops of water that seeped through the pipeline. The air beneath the mansion was stale, like it hadn't circulated in a while; and it was cold. Right now, Sylvia needed a little air conditioning for all she felt was grief and anger.

And for her, she couldn't feel such strong emotions at the same time. She needed to handle one before tackling the other. And because she was still a Gordon, she chose anger.

Mr. Bell came down a different set of stairs—those belonging to the back of the mansion that had the same switch and hidden staircase—accompanied by Victor and five of his associates, all dressed in black leather and punk gear. When Victor saw Sylvia, she realized she'd not seen herself in front of a mirror to decipher why there was a flicker of emotion in the hitman's eyes.

From crying, Sylvia's mascara and eyeliner were running beneath her eyes and down her cheeks. The rest of her was covered in dirt and grime, and her pony tail was slightly disheveled with a few hairs strung out in abandon. Victor approached her wordlessly and put his arm around her.

Sylvia flinched at the touch—not because it was Victor—because she wanted to feel anger. Perhaps that's why Oswald didn't want to be touched; he needed to accomplish what he needed to do with anger, not sadness and comfort.

"I'm sorry," Victor said softly.

"I know you are," she returned dryly. "But I don't need apologies right now. I need action."

Victor indicated his team: "We're all in. What do you want to do?"

"Wait for now," said Sylvia.

Victor followed her further into the tunnels; their heights were so different, but with Victor on the prowl and in close proximity, Sylvia didn't feel too troubled at the moment.

"Galavan will be going to the police station first," said Sylvia knowingly. "He'll tell everyone what's happened—that my husband tried to kill him a second time. The GCPD will be up in arms about it."

"And your brother?" said Victor coolly.

"He knows Oswald," Sylvia said, shaking her head. "Galavan will make up some shallow story, something to do with the election—sounds like something he'd do...he'll make it somewhat believable to explain his neck injury. But James Gordon won't completely believe it. Oswald isn't impulsive, not completely; he's a pragmatist."

"You have a lot of faith in what your brother will or will not believe," Victor noted.

"He's had a lot of interactions with Oswald by now," said Sylvia. "He knows what he may or may not do. Now if Galavan tells Jim that _I_ stabbed him in the neck, Jim won't even doubt it. He knows I hate the fucking asshole. I'd stab the fucker just on basic principle whenever it suited me."

Victor smirked saying, "So what do you want to do first?"

"First?" Sylvia quoted. "We'll go after Butch."

"Why him?"

"He's defected," said Sylvia.

"Changed sides, did he?" Victor said callously. "Why am I not surprised."

"Tabitha changed his wiring—fixed him up. She got him to remember your trigger word—that whole thing really fucked us in the ass, you know."

"Well, I _do_ good work," said Victor defensively. "I can't help it if there's another artist out there who does the same."

"Butch killed Josh," Sylvia continued. "I don't just want him because he defected to the other side. I want him because he killed _him_."

"Your umbrella boy?" Victor recalled, looking at her incredulously.

"Yes, Victor."

"You've got a soft spot for Umbrella Boys, don't you, Liv," said Victor slyly.

"I'm not in the mood for your teasing, Victor. I swear to god—"

Victor held up his hands in surrender slowly: "Fine. No teasing. But Liv…"

"If you're going to tell me you're sorry for my loss one more time, I'm going to shoot you in the knee," Sylvia threatened.

"I wasn't," Victor said lightly. "However, if that would make you feel better, I'll give you this once-in-a-lifetime shot at the title."

"Don't flatter yourself," Sylvia responded. "Shooting you won't make me feel better."

"Then maybe this will."

"Victor, no—what are you doing—no, no, no….goddamn it."

He hugged her. One, strong, tight hug that pulled her to him: chest-to-chest. So tight that she couldn't pull out of it, even if she wanted to. And that simple gesture pulled on her heart strings to the point that her eyes started watering.

"Victor..." Sylvia muttered.

"I know you, Liv," said Victor as he pulled back, looking at her closely. "You're the Queen of Gotham and all that jazz—"

"—Victor—"

Victor smiled at her saying, "You're still Sylvia Gordon. You can wear the crown all night and day, and hide under the mansion with the rest of the rabble, but you know where you really belong."

Sylvia rolled her eyes: "I am _not_ going to hide in my club while the rest of you get to do all the dirty work."

"Keep up appearances," offered Victor, smirking. "If you want Penguin to be the innocent one, then that's what I suggest you do. It's what your people need to see—"

"Gotham can kiss my ass."

"I'm not talking about Gotham," Victor reminded. "I'm talking about _your_ people. Henry, Freda—all those millennials you've employed—they need a leader. They won't know what to say to the GCPD when they storm through and start interrogating everyone; you _know_ that's what it will come down to, Liv."

"But Oswald—"

"Penguin is gonna do his own thing," said Victor. "The King isn't dead."

"The Queen's job is to _protect_ the King," argued Sylvia. "I can't just leave him…."

"Well, you've seen it already, Liv; the man doesn't want your protection," said Victor pointedly.

Sylvia glanced back at Oswald. And Victor was right. He was standing, fixing his suit from where it was roughed up in the process, with murder in his eyes. With his outspoken plea for Sylvia not to touch him, he would be in this murderous state for a while.

"Be the Queen that you are," Victor advised. "Straighten your crown, go to your club, and rule your people. We can handle it from here."

Sylvia opened her mouth to speak, but Victor interrupted her: "Liv, stop talking—for once—and just do as a friend suggests."

"Fine." Sylvia surrendered. "But keep me informed, okay? I'll see if I can put out the fires before shit goes up in flames."

Victor offered her a cell phone.

"I _have_ my phone," Sylvia stated obliviously.

"This is a personal one," said Victor. "It has my number in it, and only mine. If you need me for any reason, just call it. It's non-traceable, and—more importantly—it has my favorite ringtone on it."

Sylvia clicked through the settings and pushed the option to hear the ringtone. _Funkytown_ started playing.

"You're a different type of insufferable," Sylvia noted. "What's _my_ ringtone?"

"Call me and see."

Sylvia dialed number 1 and she waited.

 _Buttons_ by the Pussycat Dolls started playing.

"You're such a dick," Sylvia chuckled.

Victor shrugged, none too offended.

"Call me when and if something happens," she instructed.

He nodded.

"Pigeon…"

Sylvia stopped mid-step on her way out, and turned to see Oswald approaching her. He looked like he was on the brink of falling apart, but was somehow—by luck or happenstance—managing to keep himself together.

Victor cleared his throat, excusing himself and pulled his men (and women) around and away from what could be assumed as an intimate moment. Sylvia watched them before looking at Oswald.

"Be careful," Oswald told her softly.

"I will be." She returned.

She smiled and began to leave, but he took her wrist; the gentle gesture stopped her in her tracks. Sylvia turned to look at him again reproachfully.

"You're still my girl?" Oswald asked.

"Always," she returned wholeheartedly. "I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you too."

Against what seemed to be his better judgement but for the betterment of both his sanity and emotional strength, he caressed her face and kissed her. Sylvia startled at the notion—considering the fact that not more than an hour ago, he had demanded that she not even touch him.

Upon her lips being captivated by his, Sylvia could feel the heat of his face contrast with the tear-stained dampness of his cheeks. Sylvia rested her hands on his chest, taking the lapels of his suit between the pads of her fingers and pulling him even closer to her.

When the kiss naturally broke, Sylvia looked at him curiously.

"Keep Victor informed," said Oswald—the protective edge was back in his tone. "You don't go anywhere without telling him you're leaving and you don't enter any building until you brief him. Is that clear?"

"Crystal."

"If Galavan comes after you—"

"—He won't—"

"But if he does—"

"He _won't_ ," said Sylvia. "He's already made one move too many on me, and the next time he does, I'll cut his pecker off.."

Overhearing _that_ , Victor said, "Excuse me—he did _what_ now?"

Oswald glanced at Victor with his own curious expression before reverting back to his earlier statement.

"Be safe," Oswald said. "Be careful. Meet back here tonight."

"Will do," she returned sweetly.

He kissed her again, and Sylvia returned it. She turned to Victor, saying, "Care to walk me out?"

"Fine, but we're going to have to talk about this thing with Galavan. You said he hit on you?"

"We'll talk about this on the way to my car," said Sylvia, rolling her eyes.

Victor glanced at Oswald, saying, "Boss, did he actually try to—seriously, are you _kidding_ me!"

"Victor, stop talking and _walk_!" Sylvia insisted, taking his shoulder and moving him towards the stairwell.

As Victor strode up the stairs before they completely revolutionized, he was still pissed off: "Hitting on Sylvia, unbelievable. How long have we been work-married—this is unforgivable..."

Sylvia glanced at Oswald humorously before she followed Victor up the stairs.


	36. The Real Theodore Galavan

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Real Theodore Galavan

* * *

Jim sat on the edge of his desk, opposite of Harvey Bullock. The recent polls were in—Galavan was going to win the election by a landslide. It seemed like there was a small lull in the action, something that rarely ever happened in the GCPD, or in Gotham for that matter.

"Looks like you backed the right horse," Harvey said, gesturing to the television. "Do you trust him?"

"He's a politician," said Jim pointedly. "I trust him as far as I can throw him."

"With that arm of yours, probably not far."

"Ha-ha," Jim responded, glancing at him amusedly. "If he gives the GCPD what it needs to get this city under control, he has my vote."

Jim looked at Harvey, the gears in his brain turning at full speed.

"You know," he said, "Selina mentioned that it was Penguin who was behind the Wayne Enterprise fires."

"Yeah, so?"

"First he's going after mayoral candidates, then he's burning buildings down to the ground," said Jim suspiciously. "It doesn't make any sense."

"The guy's an abacus of crazy," Harvey rationalized. "Nothing he does surprises me. But..."

"But what?"

Harvey leaned towards Jim curiously, saying, "What does _Liv_ have to say about any of this?"

"I've not talked to her since we went after Bridgit Pike," Jim admitted. "But she's been acting strange too."

"Well, not to offend you or anything, Jimbo, your sister is a strange girl—all around."

"Stranger than _usual_ ," Jim specified, giving him a look. "Sylvia wouldn't talk much—"

"—That's not like her at all," Harvey agreed, nodding.

"That's what I mean," Jim insisted. "And when I tried to get her to talk about the mayoral candidates, she refused to give me any information. Any _useful_ information. And she denied knowing who was setting the fires, claimed to not even know who Bridgit was or the brothers that forced her hand."

"Well, Jim—if Penguin is the person behind all this," said Harvey logically, "maybe you ought to consider that your sister _is_ married to the guy. Whether you accept it or not—she's going to protect that bird of hers, no matter what he does. Murder isn't exactly a turn off for her."

Jim cringed, "Please don't talk about her that way."

"What—I'm saying—she _knows_ what Penguin's capable of. She _knows_ he murdered Fish—threw her off the ledge and into the ocean. Do you see her applying for a divorce? Do you see her stark-raving mad about that social injustice? No. No, you don't." Harvey returned lazily. "Penguin's the poster boy for 'crazy', but I gotta give him credit; he struck _gold_ when he found Sylvia. That girl's loyal to him...even though he can be dirt bag from time to time."

"Stop talking," Jim muttered, rolling his eyes.

Just as he spoke, the lull in the action ceased. Jim and Harvey's attention moved to the figures of District Attorney, Harvey Dent, following newly elected Mayor, Theo Galavan, into the room adjacent to them to discuss such intimate matters. Noticing the dreaded looks, Jim stepped towards Barnes.

"What the hell happened?" Jim questioned.

Barnes looked at him and said apathetically, "Penguin just tried to kill our new Mayor."

If that wasn't a hook….

Jim and Harvey exchanged curious expressions before following the trio inside the room; Barnes closed the door and stood behind his desk, looking at Galavan, who was prompted to explain the recent happenings.

"Mr. Cobblepot knew I was poised to win the election," said Galavan calmly. "And he came to me today, seeking an alliance."

Jim stared at Galavan, and said skeptically, "And you refused..."

"I politely declined, yes," Galavan clarified, smiling modestly. "I want nothing to do with his world of crime; it's what I've been meaning to eradicate after all."

"Was Sylvia present?" asked Harvey.

"Who?" Galavan responded almost immediately.

Jim said coolly, "Sylvia Diana Cobblepot. She may also go by Gordon."

"Ah, your sister," Galavan nodded, smiling that still-modest smile. "No. I don't recall."

"So when you refused," said Harvey skeptically, "he stabbed you in the neck?"

"That seems like a pretty extreme reaction," Jim noted to all in the room. "Even for Penguin."

"From Sylvia," Harvey pointed out, "I could probably expect it. She's a bit of pistol..." (He smirked at Jim) "Isn't she, Jimbo."

Jim rolled his eyes whereas Capt Barnes looked less than amused.

"We have been trying to build a case against Penguin since I got here," said Capt Barnes firmly (ignorant to suspicious looks that both Harvey and Jim were sending Galavan, who exchanged said looks with curious ones of his own). "We assume he is responsible for the earlier attacks on the mayoral candidates..."

"And he just tried to kill me a second time," Galavan emphasized.

"And he's a man that I fully intend to put behind bars." Barnes reassured. "Now, Detective Gordon" (Jim looked at him pointedly) "I don't know whether or not your sister is involved, but if she is..."

"She's an honest woman," Harvey interjected. "If we ask her what's going on with Penguin, she'll probably just hand over the information..."

"I doubt she will," Galavan uttered.

Jim glanced at Galavan—that suspicion was just tugging on his gut, like a monkey jumping on vines.

"Why do you doubt that?" Jim asked defensively. "A moment ago, you couldn't remember who she was."

"Gordon, the man was stabbed in the _neck_ ," Barnes reminded. "He can't be expected to remember every name and face we throw at him."

Jim cleared his throat, still trying to see through Galavan as he moved towards Barnes, "Let me talk to her—"

"You may very well have to," Harvey Dent poised, approaching the desk.

"Meaning?" Jim muttered.

Barnes turned to Dent expectantly; the attorney nodded and pulled a well documented sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket.

"An arrest warrant for Oswald Cobblepot as well as search and seizures of all his properties and known associates, including," Dent said calmly, "the interrogation of his spouse, Sylvia Cobblepot 'nee' Gordon."

Barnes previewed the stated names and associates, noting, "That's quite a list. We'll get right on it. Anything else?"

"Yes," said Dent, "In lieu of recent events, Judge Turnball has declared a state of emergency and granted the mayor's office additional powers."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Barnes questioned.

"Meaning," said Galavan, drawing all eyes on him, "the moment I'm sworn in, I am implementing a curfew" (Jim looked at him indignantly) "and I'm ordering your Strike Force to begin door-to-door searches until Mr. Cobblepot is apprehended."

"Hold on," said Jim, "You're talking about martial law?"

Barnes side-stepped the desk, approaching Jim, reasoning, "We're talking about bringing a dangerous fugitive to justice. We will be acting within our legal rights, won't we?"

"Absolutely," Dent vowed.

Barnes turned to Galavan saying, "You have our full support, Sir."

"Thank you, Captain," Galavan said wistfully; they shook hands.

Jim left the room, feeling more burdened by the new Mayor than he'd ever felt with any other candidate. Door-to-door searches would cause a panic within the city….and then, there was also Sylvia…

"Detective Gordon..."

Jim turned when he heard his name, spoken by the very man that was drawing more and more suspicion towards him.

"In the office," said Galavan coolly, "You seemed...hesitant..."

"Cautious," Jim corrected.

"You told me we needed to use every method at our disposal to bring people like Penguin to justice—people who no longer—and probably have never—played by the rules." Galavan reminded. "Desperate times call for strong measures."

"I have no problem going after Penguin with everything we've got," Jim reassured. "But if we start kicking down doors of average citizens, policing through fear, then we are no better than he is. People still need to trust us."

"And they will," Galavan promised. "At the end of the day, people just want to feel safe."

Jim noted that sound of the word. 'Safe'. But was that what Galavan really wanted?

"I thought maybe there was another reason for your hesitation," said Galavan calmly. "Something more."

"Such as?"

"Well, I have no doubt that you're concerned for your sister. She's somehow involved, and I can only imagine how hard it is to sail through these murky waters when they involve someone like her. Not just her—but Penguin would also technically be your 'brother-in-law', as it stands since he and your sister are married." Galavan sympathized, crossing his arms over his chest. "Nothing in the GCPD is completely black and white—there's an awful lot of gray, isn't there? I imagine that she's just blinded by love, right? People like Penguin can be _so_ manipulative...hopefully, it's all just 'wrong place, wrong time'… that sort of thing."

"Yeah," said Jim, his voice hallowing. "Hopefully."

"Just remember, Detective," Galavan said coolly. "You came to me."

Jim watched him leave. That statement alone made his skin crawl, the muscles in his neck to tighten. It was like a tick had burrowed into his skin and while he could somehow dig and light the body on fire, the head was still there...eating him alive. His suspicions were stronger now than they had ever been before.

Was his love and need to protect Sylvia causing his suspicion to grow, though.

Maybe.

But then again, everything seemed too well constructed, too organized to be just a coincidence.

And Galavan was partly correct on one fact: People like Penguin could be manipulative. But that was coming from a man who didn't know his sister very well. Between Sylvia and Oswald, Jim was certain that if one could manipulate the other best, it would be Sylvia. She had Oswald Cobblepot wrapped tightly around her finger—the man would do anything for her...anything…

Perhaps, even try to kill Galavan…? But even if his sister had that much of a pull on Penguin, the man wasn't easily manipulated himself. Not enough to bring heat on himself, at any rate.

Something didn't add up.

But for now, they'd start finding Penguin's associates, find them, find some answers, and gather more information.

But before he started the investigation…

He'd need more coffee.

* * *

Harvey sat at his desk; Jim sat in his. Jim was calling people; Harvey was calling _his_ people.

Sylvia would hold some—if not all—the answers he needed but he was reluctant to investigate. A part of him was certain that she was behind some of the attacks on the mayoral candidates, was somehow involved in the fires...and despite what Galavan said, Jim was certain that Sylvia had been present for whenever Penguin had stabbed their newly elected mayor.

Jim knew Sylvia wouldn't say all, tell all, but when it came to protecting and defending Penguin—Sylvia was as honest as she came. Brutal, yes, but honest.

"Boy," sighed Harvey, "I can see those gears burning steam."

"Hmm?"

Harvey smiled knowingly saying, "You're thinking about her, aren't you?"

"How can I not?" Jim returned irritably. "None of this makes sense."

"Well, not to add to the sudoku puzzle going on in that small brain of yours, Jimbo," said Harvey pointedly, "but I've got another piece for ya. Apparently, Butch Gilzean is held up in this booze joint downtown. And guess what? He's started his own crew."

Jim leaned back in his chair, saying, "I guess he and Penguin had a falling out."

"Probably. Let's go check it out."

"Fine by me." Jim agreed, getting to his feet.

"Hey," Lee popped up, smiling widely at Jim. "I heard what happened to our new Mayor. Never a dull moment, is there?"

"No kidding," Jim responded.

"You left your keys in my apartment again," Lee noted, handing the key ring to him.

Jim noticed an extra key.

"What's this one?" He asked, holding it up.

"A key to my apartment," Lee returned casually.

"Oh?"

Harvey cleared his throat, saying, "I'll be in the car."

"Sure," said Jim, nodding. He looked at Lee again. "Um..."

"Relax. It's just a key."

"Oh, I know. I know. Do...you want one for my place?"

"You have a place?" Lee replied, smirking.

"I suppose I'm in yours a lot more."

"I don't mind. I love it. What I _don't_ love," said Lee half-joking, "is hauling ass out of bed at 2 am when you come back from a stakeout smelling like chili dogs."

She leaned in, kissed his nose, and smirked when he looked uncomfortable.

"I love to watch you squirm," Lee teased.

"I do _not_ squirm."

She put her fingers close together, "Little squirm."

Jim watched after her and walked out of the precinct. He got his girlfriend's key to her apartment. New relationships, new problems….new commitments...new worries.

He joined Harvey in the car.

"So, got a key to your girl's apartment," Harvey noticed, smirking at him.

"I don't want to talk about that right now."

"So let's talk about something else."

"Sure."

"Have you spoken to Liv?" Harvey asked as he started the car and drove towards the downtown bar.

"Let's talk about Lee."

"No, no, no, boy-oh," chuckled Harvey. "You only get one free dodge, and you already used it up. So, how come you haven't call Sylvia."

"I honestly don't know."

"Nah, I know you. You do know. For a fact, I know why."

"Then why the hell are you asking me?" Jim questioned irately.

Harvey glanced at his partner, sighing deeply.

"Look, Jim. If anyone knows what's going on with Penguin, it would be her, right?"

"Right."

"And you _did_ tell me that she had reservations about Galavan," said Harvey.

"I didn't think you could listen when you're gorging on hot dogs."

"Hardy-har-har," Harvey sassed back, half-smiling. "I was listening. You said that she didn't like Galavan. Wouldn't tell you why, just that she didn't like him. And I may not be so entitled to know what Little Sister is thinking, but I do know that Sylvia normally has a reason for not liking people."

"I know you know. The entire GCPD knows." Jim pointed out.

"Except Barnes—I've never met a man who clenched his butthole so tightly at the mention of your sister," chuckled Harvey. "Makes me like Sylvia even more."

Harvey parked the car in front of the joint, looking around to see that there weren't many people around. At least they could be discreet beneath the Gotham bridge. He turned off the ignition, looking at Jim with—for once—a sincere expression.

"You don't want to confront her," said Harvey. "Because you don't want to learn what you think you already know."

"You think that's the reason, huh?"

"I know it is."

Jim looked out the window, thinking of her.

"I'm not stupid, okay," said Harvey. "I know you still look at Sylvia like she's your little sister, this girl that won't do anything to anyone, who won't turn on anyone. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe she's not as innocent as you think. For all you know, she killed Caulfield, and Randall Hobbs—"

"The witness placed Penguin at the scene for Caulfield's murder," Jim reminded irritably. "It wasn't her."

"Then she might have been responsible for killing Hobbs."

"It could have been Zsasz—"

"Zsasz shoots," Harvey reminded. "Sylvia has the affinity for knives. And if I recall, Hobbs' body was carved like a turkey."

"I'm not worried about her having gone after Hobbs," said Jim darkly.

"So you're not worried that she's probably responsible for one of the candidates' deaths...fine by me," said Harvey, shrugging. "So why is your head in the clouds?"

"Harvey..." Jim muttered.

"What?"

Jim straightened in his seat, looking at him.

"Since Galavan came to town, things have been happening coincidentally. Just before Galavan came to town, Aubrey James went missing. At the massacre at the gala, he turns out to be a hero. And then the killing of all his competitors for the election, it launches his campaign. He becomes mayor—not by a landslide—but by default. And then there's Sylvia's silence..."

"Silence about what?" Harvey asked suspiciously.

"She's being threatened," said Jim darkly. "She told me someone is threatening her."

"Did she say who?"

"No. She was adamant about not telling me," Jim said, shaking his head. "It pisses me off—and she's had ample opportunities to tell me their name."

"Maybe it's Penguin threatening her," Harvey suggested.

"He wouldn't threaten her."

"Jim, the guy's crazy. You've seen what he did to Fish—"

"Penguin didn't love Fish," said Jim coldly. "He loves Sylvia. I hate to admit it, but I've seen them together. They love each other. Penguin wouldn't threaten her. And if he did, Sylvia would deal with it personally. That's just her M.O."

"Then it's someone else," Harvey offered.

"It could be anyone—she's the 'Queen of Gotham'." Jim reminded. "And I'm her brother. Between those two facts, she can have multiple enemies. One, two...fifty—it's astronomical. She'd only give me two facts; it's a male, and he's rich. And they have someone close to her. Someone she feels the need to protect."

"Well, it's not you," Harvey uttered, gesturing to him. "You're right beside me. And it can't be Penguin—he's been operating pretty well... _clearly_. You and Penguin are her only family."

"Right," Jim agreed. "But there's something I'm not getting. And hitting Galavan just because he says 'no'…that doesn't sound anything like Penguin. All that would get him is heat."

"Well, maybe Galavan made a move on his woman," Harvey said, shrugging. "Galavan gets poised for mayor, meaning he's got the jitters, sees Sylvia—any man would hop on that pony, pardon the expression, Jimbo—tries to make a move while Penguin is fishing for an alliance. Penguin sees Galavan hitting on his woman, and he moves to _strike_ " (Harvey made a stabbing motion with his hand). "Seems like something Penguin would do."

"Galavan couldn't remember who Sylvia was," Jim reminded.

"Yeah..." Harvey uttered slowly. "Or at least, _pretended_ not to know who she was."

Jim nodded.

"Even if all this mayoral crap was planned, it's a crazy plan—even for Gotham standards," Harvey added.

"I could feel better about this whole thing if I knew what Penguin was up to," Jim said quietly. "And how or why Sylvia is intermixed with this whole thing."

"Well, how about we first deal with Gilzean," said Harvey, pointing to the bar. "And after, we both pay a visit to your sister. You've officially piqued my interest."

"Well, that's a step in the right direction," Jim muttered, rolling his eyes.

"We'll need to get our foot in the door first," Harvey reminded. "See if we can't do this nice and civil. We can see if anyone goes through that door, find a way in."

They waited. And sure enough, a pizza guy arrived.

"Well, sing 'hallelujah', and hail the Virgin Mary," Harvey said, grinning widely. "We just got our foot-in."

Jim and Harvey moved out of the car and strolled (because running would be too forward) after the pizza guy. Once the man had placed down the orders, they slid through the door, guns up and aiming straight at Butch and five of his newly recruited cronies.

"Damn!" Butch muttered, looking at the table. "Are you kidding me?"

"I wouldn't!" Harvey warned the surrounding goons as they began to pull out their weapons. "Seriously. I really wouldn't."

"That's a lot of fire power there, Butch," Jim noted, nodding his head to the machine guns leaning against the wall adjacent to him. "Are you expecting some company?"

"Neighborhood ain't what it used to be, Jim," Butch answered calmly.

"Where's Penguin," Jim demanded.

"I don't know."

Harvey chuckled derisively, "You're the boss' lap dog, and you don't know where your owner is?"

"I ain't nobody's lapdog," Butch responded with a sly little smile. "I'm my own man, now."

"Then prove it," said Jim. "Tell us why the hell Penguin went after Galavan."

"I ain't telling you anything. And, unless you have a warrant, I'm going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave." Butch said amusedly.

"Yeah," Jim replied, "Well, you see, our newly elected mayor kinda wants results on this. So if we drag you in, that's where you're going to stay. Got it?"

"I'M HERE FOR GILZEAN!"

Harvey, Butch, and Jim exchanged surprised, then shortly after, knowing glances. All of them recognized that voice. And it belonged to Victor Zsasz.

"Anyone who leaves _now_ ," Victor called, "leaves _alive_. Anyone who stays, _dies_. You have sixty seconds to do the math!"

"Well, it looks like Victor's still working for Penguin," Harvey muttered. He smirked at Butch: "Guess he's after _you_ , huh?"

Butch glanced at his newly formed associates, inwardly debating their loyalty, which was proven shortly after when they all excused themselves in a hurry.

"Seriously?" Butch sighed exasperatedly.

"No honor amongst scumbags, huh?" Harvey questioned knowingly.

Butch made a point to get up and run himself, but Jim grabbed him, shoved him against the beam pole and cuffed him to it without hesitation.

"What are you doing?" Butch groaned.

Jim shoved a chair aside, squatting in front of Butch.

"Tell us what the hell is going on with Penguin," Jim ordered. "Or we will leave you here for Zsasz."

"You can't do that!" Butch complained.

"Harvey?"

"We can totally do that!" Harvey agreed enthusiastically. He moved over to the window, peeking out to see just how many people Victor had with him these days—there were several.

"Galavan was telling Penguin what to do," Butch complied quickly. "The candidate murders, the fires—it all came down from Galavan."

Jim responded incredulously, "Why the hell was Penguin taking orders?"

"Galavan kidnapped his mother, held her hostage for leverage," Butch answered immediately.

 _Galavan._ **He** was threatening Sylvia.

Fuck!

"Kidnapped," Jim repeated. "Did Sylvia know?"

"She knew all right," Butch said, nodding vigorously. "Galavan was controlling Penguin with his mom."

"Why wouldn't Sylvia come to the GCPD," Jim demanded angrily.

"Galavan again," Butch replied. "He told her that if the GCPD caught wind of anything, then something awful would happen to Penguin's mother—she couldn't come to you or anyone else."

"That bastard," Harvey cursed, glaring at Butch.

"She was protecting his mother?" Jim muttered.

"I didn't think he would go through with it," Butch breathed, shocked.

"Go through with what?" Jim demanded. "Go THROUGH WITH WHAT!"

Then the bullets started flying—shattering windows, punching holes in the doors, ricocheting off table tops, and shredding the wallpaper of the little seedy bar. Butch ducked—as did Jim and Harvey. Jim threw over a table, and he and his partner hunkered down.

"We're outmanned here big, partner," Harvey groaned.

"Yeah," said Jim. "But not outgunned."

"Oh, hell yes!" Harvey called with glee.

He grabbed one machine gun, and tossed the other to Jim. They clipped in the rounds, and fired off, pelting the glass and what was left of the door and window panes with rounds, exhausting all but the last of the clip. Then there was silence.

"I'll take that as a 'no'!" Victor called from outside. "I'll see you later, Butch!"

"We'd be well matched if Liv was with us," Harvey noted. "She loves shoot-outs. You know I hear she's been taking lessons from Victor—"

"Damn it." Jim cursed.

"What?" Harvey said, then when he turned, he saw that Butch was gone. "Damn it!"

* * *

Sylvia stood on the balcony of her club, hands gripping the railing as she cast her eyes down to the dance floor where a number of her regulars and even newer patrons slow danced to the melodic music played by the talented pianist on the stage.

Her thoughts—how conniving her mind worked—would revert back to the days when it was just Oswald and her working the club. Just before Fish was run out of town, how they'd celebrated their soon-to-come victory.

Gertrud had pulled her into an embrace, taught her to dance—even when Sylvia doubted her own ability to sing and dance. First, it had started out as a hidden talent, a small hobby...then with her influence and Oswald's confidence in what was now her current profession, she'd blossomed and bloomed to the professional dancer she was today.

Had Gertrud not taught her to waltz, Sylvia highly doubted she would have found a way to become what she was now.

And knowing this made her feel that much smaller.

Currently, she would give her arm and left leg to bring her back. Sylvia's own mother had gone when she was such a little girl so it always had been herself, Jim, and their father—and occasional Uncle Frank. Aside from Fish Mooney (despite from the bitter ending), Sylvia had never known another mother figure. That was until Oswald had introduced the two of them.

First, she was the 'slut' who had kidnapped her son and entangled him in her 'demon purse'. And then soon after, Sylvia became her _lamm_.

What love had grown for the woman was nothing more than pain now.

"Vee-Vee..."

Sylvia turned her head slightly, registering that Marcy was talking to her.

Marcy wore black clothes, mirroring their Mother (Sylvia); half her hair was a deep shade of blood red, while the other was just as black as her clothes. Beside her, as always, was Freda, who carried in her hand a fresh cup of Starbucks. The two had actually spoken together, commonly speaking as one person instead of the individuals that they were.

"Yes?" Sylvia returned, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Why are you sad?" Marcy asked.

"Is it the music?" Freda suggested.

"Maybe it's—"

"I'm sad," said Sylvia quietly, "because I've lost someone very dear to me."

"Do you want us to fight someone?" Marcy offered. "I'll kick a man in his craw hole—I'll do it, you know I'd do it! I'd do it for _you_ , Vee-Vee."

"Don't do anything," Sylvia advised darkly. "You were given your instructions from Mr. Bell, remember?"

"Yeah, Vee-Vee," Freda recalled. "You told us to stay put. But if someone's messing with you—it's that Tabitha Galavan bitch—I bet...We can—"

"Just don't do anything!" Sylvia snapped.

They recoiled at her harsh tone.

"Just go downstairs, get some ice cream," Sylvia said, softening her voice. "I just need to think for a moment."

"Sure thing, Mrs. P, whatever you say," Freda responded, nodding adamantly. She took Marcy's hand and they walked down the stairs together, speaking in low tones.

"Sylvia."

She turned now to Tiffany who approached her with two martinis. She offered one to her.

"No thanks," said Sylvia.

"You look like you need it."

"I want it, don't get me wrong. But alcohol is a depressant, and I'm already feeling depressed as it is. Drink it for me, would you?" Sylvia said, smiling gratefully at her. But the smile didn't reach her eyes.

"Something happened tonight, didn't it?" Tiffany said knowingly. "What happened? You can tell me."

"Galavan." Sylvia answered. "Galavan is what happened tonight."

"That thing you told us—where we had to do whatever Galavan said—is it over?"

"It's not," said Sylvia. "It's just begun."

"What does that mean?"

Sylvia turned to her completely.

"Tiff, you've been a good friend, an excellent co-partner." Sylvia told her. "But...I..."

"NO BODY MOVE! STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!"

Sylvia and Tiffany leaned over the banister to see Harvey Bullock and Jim Gordon trudging through the dance floor; patrons moved to the side, scowling or looking in their direction in fear. Following them were two rascals of the Strike Force, but it looked as though they'd come with their minimum forces.

Sylvia's heart raced—she'd thought they were about to get robbed or something.

Jim confronted Henry, who looked as though he was ready to fend off an army, despite the fact he was puny compared to him.

"Where's your boss," Harvey ordered.

Henry pointed up to the balcony.

Tiffany looked at Sylvia worriedly.

"Go downstairs," Sylvia requested.

"Will you be okay?" Tiffany whispered.

"I will be fine. Do as I say, please."

"Yes, ma'am."

Tiffany curtsied then left per Sylvia's request. Tiffany passed Harvey and Jim on the way down; the rascals of the Strike Force remained downstairs. Sylvia noticed this and turned to both of the detectives, looking at them discernibly.

"Congratulations," said Sylvia dully. "You just gave about twenty of my Regulars heart-attacks."

"Stop the banter," Harvey said. "We need to talk."

"Fine." Sylvia returned. She gestured for them to follow her into the office. She closed the door. "Should I be concerned with the rabble downstairs?"

"The Strike Force is there to protect you," Jim informed.

"I don't need protection."

"Oh, girl," Harvey chuckled, "I'm pretty sure you do."

"No." Sylvia argued. "I'm pretty sure I _don't._ "

"Cut the crap, Vee," Jim insisted as he sat across from her. "We know everything."

"Do you?" Sylvia replied nonchalantly. "Why is the sky blue instead of yellow?"

"Okay," Harvey submitted. "Maybe not _everything_."

Sylvia allowed herself a small smile, looking at them.

"There's a warrant for Oswald Cobblepot's arrest," Jim informed calmly. "And there will be a search and seizure of all his territories as well as known associates for his whereabouts."

Sylvia shrugged casually, saying, "That sounds like a police matter. It's not exactly any of _my_ business what you've all been instructed to do."

"Well, it is your business, Little Sister," Harvey insisted, leaning forward, "because _you_ are on the warrant."

"Search then," said Sylvia, holding her hands out to them. "Tip over tables, ransack my office."

"We're not doing that," Jim said as Harvey stood to take her up on her offer.

"The hell we aren't," said Harvey. "You may not like it, Jimbo, but we've got orders."

"Since when did you start following orders?" Jim asked him.

After a beat, Harvey chuckled, sitting back down: "You know what, Jim. You've got a point."

Sylvia glanced between them suspiciously.

"We know Galavan put Penguin up to killing the mayoral candidates," Jim said calmly. "We know Galavan ordered the Wayne Enterprise buildings to be taken down. And we just talked to Butch—"

"'Talked' is a funny word to describe it," said Harvey amusedly.

"—And he said that Galavan kidnapped your mother-in-law," said Jim strongly, searching her eyes for confirmation. "We need to know if that's true."

Sylvia leaned back in her chair, arms crossed.

"Vee," Jim pleaded, "We need to know just _what_ we are up against."

"What I say won't matter," Sylvia responded heatedly, her eyes suddenly lit, her calm mask disappearing. "My word against the mayor's—you've got nothing when it comes down to it. The only thing these _people_ " (She gestured outside of the club) "will see is that I'm the Penguin's wife. What Galavan has done to _my_ family will _not_ matter."

"Vee," Jim began.

Sylvia shook her head saying, "He's a **monster** , Jimmy. A fucking monster. But he's got his T's crossed and all of fucking I's dotted. You can't win against him. Not the _legal_ way."

"Then tell us what we need to know," Harvey insisted. "Tell us what Galavan has done. We're cops—we can put this guy away for good—"

"I don't want him behind **bars**!" Sylvia snapped, getting to her feet. "I want him _dead_! What's he done to me is unforgivable and something as small as putting him in jail will not bring back what I have lost!"

"Butch said he kidnapped your mother-in-law," Harvey said, his voice sincere and helpful. "Did he do more than just that? Was Butch telling the truth!"

"That and more," Sylvia resounded, her eyes started tearing up. "He killed her, Jim. He fucking killed her—she died in Oswald's arms, and Butch—he fucking held me at gun point. He wouldn't let me go to him—he wouldn't let me comfort my own fucking husband!"

Jim and Harvey stared at her, eyes wide.

Sure enough, Sylvia was crying in front of them.

A shock to Harvey, considering he'd never even see her so much as shed a tear. But Jim hadn't seen her cry in a long time.

"Do you know where Penguin is hiding?" Harvey asked.

"No," Sylvia lied, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"You're lying," Harvey noticed.

"What if I am?" Sylvia threatened. "Are you going to bring me in for questioning?"

"No," said Harvey. "I just know you're lying. You've covering for him. You know _exactly_ where he is. But you won't give him up."

Sylvia said nothing.

"I'm done talking to you," said Sylvia, pointing at Harvey. "You want information, you take me in. Otherwise, I'm done talking."

She turned to Jim.

"You want to know who you're up against, James?" Sylvia breathed hatefully. "That mayor of ours is just as sick as the rest of us— _sicker_. Him and his sister alike. You want to make this right—you kill him, _on sight_."

"I can't do that," Jim told her helplessly. "We don't have proof."

" _You_ can't," Sylvia reinforced.

"You're threatening our mayor?" Harvey asked delicately. "We can bring you in for that."

"I never threatened his life," said Sylvia coldly. "Do I want him dead? Of course I do. The writer who's been fucking up my favorite TV show also probably deserves to die, but I don't count that as a threat on their life either."

"Galavan is the person who's been threatening you," Jim said pointedly. "Isn't he?"

"Like I said, Jim—my word doesn't matter," said Sylvia heatedly. "It doesn't matter what I say—I'm on the fucking warrant, I'm the one who is being interrogated, and investigated. What I say has no weight. So even I _did_ tell you that Galavan was threatening me, no one—and I do mean **no one—** would believe me."

"We're wasting time," Harvey said, nodding. "No one is going to take the word of a Kingpin's wife."

Sylvia gestured to Harvey, looking at Jim, saying, "There. See?"

"Tell the Strike Force to search what they need to search," Jim told Harvey.

"Jim, they're not going to find anything." Harvey said.

"Well, _they_ don't know that," Jim replied, inclining his head to the Strike Force downstairs.

"Okay." Harvey sighed. "Have it your way."

He stood and walked out of the office wordlessly. Sylvia turned to Jim.

"I want to make this right," Jim said quietly. "I'm sorry for what you've been through, Vee. Really, I am."

"You've no idea what I've lost," said Sylvia, her voice breaking. "You have _no_ idea what I've been subjected to. So how _dare_ you stand there and **apologize**!"

"Vee, you could have told me it was Galavan—"

"—He had Gertrud, James! He had her locked up like some fucking _dog_ —"

"—And you're angry," Jim continued, rounding the desk and approaching her.

"I'm pissed off," Sylvia agreed. "I'm furious!"

"And you want him dead," Jim said knowingly.

"You have _no_ idea!" Sylvia sobbed, tears falling down her cheeks.

"Penguin's going to go after him, isn't he," Jim said.

"Why are you asking me questions when you already know the answers to them!" Sylvia said helplessly. "He killed Gertrud, Jim! He put a knife in her back, and both Oz and I watched her fucking **die**. She died in his _arms_."

"Sylvia, I know what you want to do, but it's murder—"

"Murder is too _good_ for that fucking monster," Sylvia growled.

"So help me put him away," Jim begged.

He held her in his arms, trying to get her to move, but Sylvia pushed him away.

"I told you, James. I don't want him behind bars! I want him to fucking rot! He killed my family—he **destroyed** it! And I want nothing more than to see him _die_!" Sylvia shouted furiously. "You want to help—you'd put a bullet in his head and leave it at that!"

"I can't do that!" Jim growled.

"He threatened my existence!" Sylvia bellowed. "He put a gun to my head and tried to kidnap _me,_ James. If Oswald hadn't fucking put a knife in his neck, I'd be in the same fucking situation—maybe worse! You're trying to protect a fucking monster, James! And if that's still your only goal after I've told you everything I know, then **fuck you**!"

She threw a lamp at him. Jim dodged it.

"Whoa!" Harvey jumped into the office, throwing the door open. "Jimbo—are you still okay in here?"

Jim glanced at his partner before turning to Sylvia whose chest was heaving up and down, her face soaking wet from sweat and tears.

"Yeah," said Jim breathlessly.

"Get anything?"

"No." Jim said, shaking his head. "Nothing. Let's go."

Sylvia watched them go down the stairs and she leaned over the banister, shouting, "YOU'RE PROTECTING A MONSTER, JAMES! A FUCKING MONSTER!"

Jim glanced up at the railing before pushing the Strike Force and Harvey out the door.


	37. A Reflection of Love

Chapter Thirty-Seven: A Reflection of Love

* * *

Per Oswald's request, she kept Victor informed on her coming and goings whilst outside of the Cobblepot Mansion's perimeter.

"You don't sound like yourself," Victor said over the phone.

"I'm not myself," Sylvia confirmed. "My brother and his GCPD pals came to the club for a raid."

"Are you okay?"

"Physically, yes."

"Did they find anything?"

"Damn, Victor," Sylvia sighed. "Now I feel a little offended. If you think they found anything, we are _clearly_ not operating on the same level of respect."

"You know I like to tweak that sense of humor of yours," Victor said slyly. He let out a cruel chuckle over the phone that made Sylvia roll her eyes.

"I'm coming up to the mansion," Sylvia informed.

"We'll be waiting," Victor returned, his tone was back to being business-like.

Sylvia did a double take around herself, making sure she wasn't followed. Seeing nothing to the contrary, she flipped the switch, pulled the welcome mat aside, and descended down the stairs; once she was underground, she flicked the twin's switch, and watched the stairs move back inside the slender concrete wall behind her.

"I never get tired of that," she muttered.

Currently, in the room she resided, there was no one. However, she followed the dulcet tones through the tunnel, walking inside. Sensing the oppressing presence of someone new, Gabe, Dagger, Chilly, and a few others that had gathered to partake in the evening's event, readied their weapons, cocked their guns, and aimed it at her.

"False alarm," Gabe told everyone.

"One hell of a greeting," Sylvia greeted, smirking at them. "Hi, Gabriel."

Gabe moved towards her, and he wrapped his arms around her. She looked at him curiously.

"I figured you needed it," Gabe explained; his droopy face transfixed into one of a sympathetic smile.

"Thanks, but I'm fine."

"Well, in our defense, Miss Sylvia—you don't really look like it." Henry's voice spoke from behind Dagger.

When Sylvia heard it, she glared; Dagger quickly moved aside to dodge her temper.

"Henry!" Sylvia scolded. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Freda and Marcy said— _whoa_!" Henry stopped talking once Sylvia grabbed him by the loose collar of his polo and shoved him against the nearest pillar.

"I told you to _stay at the club_ ," Sylvia growled. "Are you fucking deaf!"

"Sylvia, I—"

"I SAID 'ARE YOU DEAF'!"

"N-no…." Henry stammered.

It was admittedly the first time that Sylvia saw him scared of her. Most of the time, he was smirking or playing it cool. Now, he legitimately looked afraid of his boss.

"So volume ain't an issue," Sylvia growled. "So that makes you a disobedient little shit!"

Dagger and Chilly moved to touch her.

"BACK OFF!" Sylvia ordered, pointing the finger of her free hand at them.

They held up their hands and did as they were told. Gabe and Mr. Bell looked at each other curiously. It wasn't a shock to them that Sylvia would behave this way; both of them had told Henry—advised against it actually—not to come to the mansion because this is exactly how she would react.

She'd lost one of her own—Joshua—to Galavan. She was furious that Henry had disobeyed her orders and had come anyway.

"I knew you were in trouble," Henry quickly stammered out. "I-I knew you were going to need help, so I decided to come and try and _help_!"

Sylvia pushed him further up the pillar, joining her free hand with the other to do so; his feet started to dangle.

Gabe raised his eyebrows in surprise; he had no idea that she was so strong.

"Henry, I told you to stay the hell back at the club—I gave you one goddamn job to do!" Sylvia bellowed. "ONE FUCKING THING! And what did you do—you deliberately disobeyed me, you little _shit_!"

She dropped him and he crumpled against the pillar, hunkering down and attempting to get away from her.

"Miss Sylvia, please...I just wanted to help." Henry said weakly.

"You wanted to help," Sylvia responded sardonically. "You could have helped by staying where I told you to stay, by doing what I asked you to do. Before I left, I specifically requested that you all save each other—to _protect_ one another, and you fucking leave!"

"I thought you'd be happy!" Henry squeaked.

"DO I LOOK FUCKING HAPPY TO YOU!" Sylvia screamed.

"N-no, you d-don't, but Sylvia—"

"Sylvia," Gabe began. "Give the kid a break—he just came to help out."

"Stay the fuck out of this, Gabriel," Sylvia snapped. "This doesn't concern you."

"He's just trying to help—let the kid help," Dagger offered.

"I've already lost one kid tonight," Sylvia said, turning on Dagger and Gabe. "I can't lose anyone else."

Henry slowly stood to his feet.

"Sylvia, I can help in anything. I'm capable—all we want is to prove ourselves and—"

Sylvia's eyes flickered with dismay, turning back to him.

"' _We_ '?"

Henry gulped.

Sylvia looked above him, and stepped back. She leaned over him, and turned up the switch to the other lights; with a clatter, the lights turned on to reveal Marcy, Freda, and Tiffany all hanging back, standing together behind a pillar.

Henry had been the fall-guy, the one who had dared to speak first. But it had been one idea, decided amongst the rest of them.

"Are you fucking _kidding_ me!" Sylvia shouted.

"Can't blame the kids for wanting to help," Dagger offered. "They see you're miserable, you don't tell them nothing, so you can't blame them for coming to help out their boss."

Sylvia seethed, "Do any of you—ANY OF YOU—know what it means to obey fucking orders!"

Gabe raised his hand.

"Put your fucking hand down, Gabe—goddamn it." Sylvia hissed.

"Vee-Vee," began Marcy and Freda.

"Don't 'Vee-Vee' me," Sylvia snapped. " _Not_ now."

"But we just want to help," Marcy piped up, standing next to Henry. "It's like what Stagger said—"

"—Dagger—" Dagger corrected.

"—Whatever," Marcy dismissed, waving him away. "We knew you were in trouble, Vee-Vee. We just wanted to help!"

Sylvia rubbed her temples.

"You're all bunch of little children, _aren't_ you?" Sylvia mumbled.

She turned to Tiffany, who slowly approached her, ready to receive whatever anger that could be thrown at her.

"We—" Tiffany began, but Sylvia shook her hands violently.

"I _know_ ," Sylvia said irritably. "You 'wanted to help'." (She rubbed the bridge of her nose.)"I get it, you want to help. Much appreciated, but if you all are here, then who the fuck is running the club?"

"Forget about the club," scoffed Marcy. "The club handles itself."

"Yeah," Freda added. "Plus, Chilly's there."

"No," said Sylvia darkly. "He's right _here_." (She pointed to where Chilly was standing, looking innocent as his name was brought up.)

"Oh..." Freda muttered.

"So _not only_ did you all disobey my instructions," she seethed, "you also left the business unattended. So, you know...people can just break down the door and steal whatever the fuck they want."

"Well, Strike Force already did that," Freda reminded.

Marcy nudged her in the ribs, saying, "Shut up! You're not helping."

Sylvia held two fingers to the bridge of her nose, like she was trying to not spontaneously combust.

"Victor!" Sylvia shouted.

Her voice echoed through the tunnels. And sure enough, Victor appeared, looking more or less content but curious as he approached her.

"You shrieked?" Victor said, smirking at her.

"Please," said Sylvia tiredly. "Escort the kids back to the club, would you kindly?"

"Sure."

"We're not going anywhere," Freda argued.

"We're staying right here," said Marcy.

"We want to help," Henry insisted. "And we're going to help, no matter what you say."

Victor raised his eyebrows at Sylvia, waiting for her reaction to the insubordination.

"Do you still want me to escort these children back to the shoe?" Victor asked.

A beat of silence passed, and Oswald entered the room, looking at them all incredulously.

"You _do_ realize we're supposed to be in hiding?" Oswald reminded them coolly. "That means using 'inside' voices, and not trying to alert everyone to our location?"

Sylvia gave him a look: "I can't deal with these kids today. I just can't. Victor—"

"Got it," Victor returned, stepping towards the teenagers.

"Hey, we came here on our own initiative!" Henry snapped, dodging Victor's lurching height. "We want to help—and we're more than willing to die trying."

Freda and Marcy nodded bravely.

Tiffany looked as though she might have started a war just by bringing all these people back to the mansion without her boss' say-so. But she looked at Sylvia just as bravely.

" _You_ all may be willing to sacrifice yourselves," Sylvia told them. "But I'm not. I don't want any of you here, or going after Galavan.""

"You wanted a good crew," Henry said harshly. "You _wanted_ people who could take care of each other so you didn't have to worry about us. Well, we've been doing that. We have literally done everything you've ever asked us to do and the one time when we can actually give something back, you're not going to let us to do it. We've got this, Sylvia! Let us prove ourselves!"

"You are _not_ going to this party," Sylvia ordered. "You are _not_ going to prove yourself **tonight**. I went over this with you before, and I'm honestly surprised that I have to go through this again. You are _not_ going—"

Oswald said lightly, "If they want to help, Pigeon, let them."

"I lost Josh," said Sylvia, looking at him. "I can't lose my other kiddos too."

"We're not your kids," Henry reminded. "We're your employees. Josh wasn't your kid either—he was able to go with you, and he wanted to. Sure, he got himself shot, but he would have wanted it to go no other way."

"What the hell is happening right now?" Victor asked Gabe.

Gabe shrugged.

"We're rallying," insisted Marcy. "You have a choice. You can either have us work for you, and have some help getting this Galavan fucker—which I'm sure you want to do, right—or we can be babysat by this guy" (she gave Victor a leery glare) "and do fuck-all."

"I like this kid," Victor chuckled, gesturing to Marcy.

Sylvia looked at them, all of them. She was torn, clearly.

"Help us help you," Freda insisted. "Let us do something for _you_ for a change, Vee-Vee."

Sylvia pursed her lips together for a moment and with _much_ reservation, she said reluctantly, "Fine."

Henry, Freda, and Marcy cheered while Tiffany smiled gratefully. Sylvia glanced at them all and she walked away, rubbing her temples. The heels of her boots clicked the damp concrete as she sought out solace in the moment.

After a while, Sylvia heard a second pair of footsteps. A hand touched her shoulder. She turned to see Oswald.

"I'm making a mistake," Sylvia uttered softly. "Sending them to the gala with the rest of them. I'm making a huge, and terrible, mistake. They're not ready. They never were. And Josh—"

Oswald lifted his hand to her face, his slender fingers running parallel along her jaw line while his thumb rested over her lips, silencing her. Sylvia looked at him reprovingly.

"They'll prove themselves to you," Oswald reassured. "You just have to place your confidence in them."

"I can't—they're kids."

"Then that begs the question as to why you employed them in the first place," Oswald returned.

"Because they needed to belong somewhere," Sylvia said. "They needed a home. But in the beginning, they were just my employees. When I see them now, all I see are my kids."

Oswald took her hands in his.

"When all this is over," said Oswald gently. "We may have to go over our options as to why we never considered child-bearing."

Sylvia smiled sadly at him, saying, "Ozzie, doing what you're about to do—you may very well die tonight."

"Maybe," he considered aloud. "Then again, there's the chance that I might not. In either scenario, your people will be fine. Gabe will be keeping tabs on them the entire time."

"That won't be necessary," said Sylvia calmly. "I'll be with them."

Oswald suddenly had a change of tune. He looked at her with much concern and alarm.

"You are _not_ going to—" Oswald began.

"Oh, I most certainly am," Sylvia reassured strongly.

"You aren't serious."

"Do I sound like I'm joking?"

"Sylvia, I forbid you to—"

Sylvia smirked at him saying, "Do you even remember _who_ you're talking to?"

Oswald scowled, "It doesn't surprise me why all your people are insubordinate. Look at their leader."

Sylvia chuckled when she realized her own hypocrisy.

"Don't worry about me," she reassured. "I'll lag behind in the back, keep a far-away distance. Anyway, I'm only going to be shadowing the ground; the others will be going into the building itself. Galavan's eventually going to come out with an escape route; the GCPD can be incompetent, but an escape route is going to be in place to get Galavan out of that mess."

"Pigeon, whether you stand in the front, the middle, or the back," said Oswald, "your hair is a dead giveaway."

"It is, isn't it?" Sylvia noted, touching her copper locks.

"I'm going to brief the troops. Please reconsider. At least, _think_ about it."

"I can reconsider and re-think everything you've told me, but you already know when I've made up my mind, there's no going back."

"I'm _very_ aware."

He touched her face again, then brushed his lips against hers. Sylvia responded, smiling at him endearingly.

Oswald approached the rest of the crew, looking at them all, arms crossed.

"No one is to kill Galavan but me. Understand?" Oswald told them.

"Boss, I get what you're feeling," said Gabe sympathetically. "A mother's love—it's the most beautiful, the most simple—"

"GABE!" Oswald snapped. If Gabe kept it up, he was going to fall apart and he didn't need that to happen just now.

"Cops aren't gonna let you within a hundred feet of Galavan," Gabe said logically. "Let us whack him for you. Please?"

"No," Oswald refused. "He's mine."

He took a deep breath, fixed his suit and said calmly, "Now...let's get dressed. We have a party to attend."

* * *

Henry, Freda, Marcy, and Tiffany all helped each other into one of Penguin's expensive suits. It wasn't exactly a one-size-fits-all deal, but by happenstance, all of them were pretty slim and it only required a few stitches here and some inches taken in to make the suits work.

Some of Penguin's men (almost all of them) were tailored and suited. The hair was probably the most difficult part. Marcy was already halfway there; she only needed the other half of her hair spray-painted to look the part.

Within an hour, give or take, anyone who had shown up (minus Mr. Bell, Victor, and Gabe) were dressed the part. It didn't take long to practice Oswald's characteristic limp; Henry seemed to already know it all too well as though he had mimicked Oswald in the past.

Oswald looked at them all, smiling. Despite everything, he was proud as to how well all of this was slowly producing. No one would be able to pick him out of a line-up.

"Where's Sylvia?" asked Henry, looking around and narrowing his eyes to get a more close-up of everyone in the room.

Oswald felt a little relief, hoping that she had reconsidered his words and decided to stay out of the plot. He couldn't risk losing her. Not her.

"I'm here."

Oswald turned to see Sylvia, dressed exactly like him. Her copper locks were hidden under ebony dye. And what's more, she'd chopped off her waist-length hair, all the way up to her neck; the rest of her locks had been tied up with bands and bobby pins, her bangs spiked and plastered with gel and hairspray across her forehead.

In many ways, Oswald was certain he'd been looking at a direct reflection of himself—her bright blue eyes were the only slighted difference...that, and she was a woman.

"You look..." Oswald began.

"Fabulous," Sylvia answered, grinning broadly at him. "I know."

"You're seriously going with us?" Henry asked unhappily. "What happened to us proving ourselves to you?"

"Well, my little ducklings, if I can't keep you out of harm's way by locking you in my club," said Sylvia dutifully, "then I'll have to do my part in making sure you live through this massacre. Because that's exactly what it's going to be."

"Sylvia," Oswald said, taking her arm and pulling her to him.

"Oz, you can't talk me out of this."

"I know I can't."

"Are you still going to try?" Sylvia asked knowingly. "You'll be wasting your breath. Honestly, you shouldn't really be surprised. We've been together almost two years—seriously, that's almost a fucking lifetime by Gotham standards."

"No, no," Oswald said quickly. "I'm not going to talk you out of it. Odds are, you'd ignore me anyway."

"The odds are high," she agreed.

"I just…" Oswald started again, but he was at a loss for words.

Perhaps it was seeing the extent Sylvia would go to ensure his success. First, there was becoming the King of Gotham, how well she just rolled with the punches. And now, here she was, doing whatever was necessary to make sure that he got his revenge on Galavan, as well as avenging the mother she never had.

And not to mention the fact that was dressed just like him in a suit and had changed her entire appearance.

It was all a ploy to distract the Strike Force as well as the rest of the GCPD so Oswald could catch Galavan outside the perimeter. Technically, she was sacrificing herself.

For him.

'For better, for worse...for richer, for poorer...in sickness and health, til death to us part', indeed.

"Oswald?" Sylvia spoke his name, becoming more concerned for the fact that he had yet said anything.

He glanced at the team, noticing that they were still fixing each other up. He took her hands in his once more, his mouth open but words unable to come out.

"Ozzie, what is it?" Sylvia asked.

Oswald smiled at her as he finally spoke: "I love you so fucking much."

Sylvia grinned broadly at his statement: "Look at you, baby. Cursing and not even in the bedroom. I fucking love you too, sweetheart."

He kissed her and she returned it.

"Does this mean we all get guns?" Marcy piped up, looking at everyone.

Oswald raised his eyebrows at Sylvia, who shrugged carelessly.


	38. Shot But Not Killed

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Shot But Not Killed

* * *

Galavan's party was being thrown, regardless of the threat over his head. The Strike Force was ready and staged with their tasks; Jim and Harvey were inside, watching, listening to the clever speeches. But neither of them could be fooled. Butch might have been lying for all they knew, but Jim heard it from the mouth of his sister.

The new Mayor was dirty.

"Detective Gordon," Galavan greeted, smiling widely at him as he came over to get a picture with one of the many who'd publicly endorsed his campaign.

The reporters ate it up like Thanksgiving turkey, catching a few good shots from all angles. They thanked Galavan for his patience and they went to some other politicians and congressmen who were there to celebrate the victory of their new mayor.

"I heard about the shoot-out today," Galavan said nonchalantly. "Something about one of Penguin's former lieutenants, a Butch Gilzean?"

"Some men ambushed us as we were questioning him," Jim informed. "He escaped."

"Did you get anything out of him before he did?"

Jim noted that odd tone, but he said, "Unfortunately, no."

"Well, that's a pity," he lamented.

A pity, indeed.

Jim wasn't easily fooled. He caught Harvey's eye, gesturing for him to follow their wonderful new mayor. Harvey nodded, catching the signal, and doing what he did best: tailing.

It was a surprise that Galavan hadn't asked about his sister, really.

"Detective," rang Martinez on the walkie, "I have a large group of men approaching from the main road. I have eyes on the target. It appears to be Cobblepot, sir."

"Hold your fire," Jim ordered into the walkie. "Perimeter units, prepare to engage."

A moment later: "Target has been taken down, sir."

"I told you to hold your fire, Martinez," Jim scowled.

"It wasn't us, sir," Martinez reported. "We have an unknown shooter on the roof. Repeat: we have an unknown shooter on the roof."

Jim moved through the room, speaking: "Martinez, is Penguin dead?"

"Negative. It's not him, sir."

"Find the other shooter, and find Penguin—we need him alive!" Jim ordered.

"Detective, all the targets are dressed as Penguin and all of them are heavily armed; positive ID is impossible."

 _Damn it._

"Martinez, you are cleared to engage. All units converge on our perimeter _now."_

The windows shattered. All of them. Jumping through the windows were multiple people, all dressed in the same deep purple suits, all holding shot guns and discharging their loaded weapons into the crowd of fair-weather attendees.

Innocent people fell face-down to the floor. Police officers drew their own guns, firing at the tidal wave of suspects. Rounds hit the wooden floor, and littered around the dead bodies.

Jim pulled a few people out of the crossfire, ducking a few close calls himself before finding Galavan, who was slumped against the wall, doing his best to evade the bullets as well. Harvey stood in front, leaning against the pillar, using it as a guard.

"We have to get you out of here," Jim growled, looking at Galavan. "Harvey—"

"Got you covered, partner!" Harvey shouted.

"Let's go," Jim said, grabbing Galavan's arm and dragging him out.

The walkie rambled out directions: "... _back-entrance._ _Remaining officers, stay inside and clear the lobby_...Confirmed...Primary is en route...Initiating exit plan, using the South Entrance... _Roger that. Detective Gordon is en route to the rear entrance with the Mayor. Need that limo in the back service entrance, stat. C_ opy that."

Jim and Galavan burst out of the door like a bomb was going off—and in a matter of speaking, it was.

"GET THE MAYOR OUT OF HERE!" Jim shouted.

The limo driver hopped out of the driver's seat, and opened the back door. Just as he did, shots fired, and the driver was on the ground. Dead.

Jim shoved Galavan down, and aimed his gun at the suspect.

And lo and behold, it was Penguin. Holding a shot gun.

"Hello, Jim," Oswald greeted less than enthusiastically. "Please step aside."

"You know I can't do that," Jim replied carefully.

"You would if you knew what kind of man you were protecting."

"Shoot him, Detective," Galavan breathed.

"Oswald," Jim said firmly. "Listen to me. You have to put the gun down."

Oswald's voice cracked as he spoke, "He killed my mother, Jim."

"I know."

Galavan glanced at Jim incredulously. Genuine shock, there.

"Detective Gordon," Galavan said dangerously. "I am ordering you to put that man down _now_."

Oswald stepped forward, saying, "He had her murdered in front of me. I held her. Watched her die. Do you know what that's like? It changes a person."

Footsteps approached.

Jim felt a little relief as Harvey rounded behind Oswald, cocking his gun, saying, "I'm sorry about your mother, Penguin. But I'm gonna need you to put the shotgun down on the ground...slowly. Now."

Oswald glanced only a little behind him, noticing that it was Harvey. He inhaled deeply, looking straight at Jim.

"One of us is going to die tonight. I've made my peace with that." Oswald said. "I suggest the mayor does as well."

"Don't make us shoot you," Jim warned.

A third gun cocked.

And the sound made Jim and Harvey startle, including Galavan and Oswald. But Sylvia's voice came out clear as day.

"James, if you shoot my husband, I _will_ shoot your partner."

Harvey glanced over his shoulder to see Sylvia—or what sounded like Sylvia—aiming a hand gun straight at his head.

Harvey, Galavan, and Jim stared at Oswald's look-alike. She was a splitting image of him.

"Vee?" Jim gasped.

"Yeah, it's me." Sylvia returned. With her free hand, she ruffled her hair; the bobby pins and rubber bands fell out, prompting her neck-length hair to fall around the top of her shoulders.

"You won't shoot Harvey," Jim said calmly.

"Try me. I've had a _very_ long day, James," Sylvia said darkly. "Your cops just took out my kiddos" (she gestured her free hand to the house) "And the man you're protecting killed my mother-in-law. So fucking _try me._ "

"Oswald," Jim began. "Please. Don't make us shoot you."

"Shoot me," said Oswald angrily, "And you have no idea what his endgame is! And you should. Because it concerns someone you know! Someone you care about!"

Galavan breathed, "Shoot him."

Sylvia let out a high-pitched scream when Oswald grunted, hitting the ground when a bullet caught him in the shoulder.

"ON THE ROOF!" Harvey bellowed.

Jim and Harvey directed their fire towards the roof of the house. To their bewilderment, Oswald was slithering into the driver's seat of the limousine while Sylvia opened the passenger door, getting in.

He grunted through the pain, starting the car and the limo shot down the highway; Sylvia cringed when the bullets hit the roof and sideview mirrors. She wasn't sure how to feel about Jim shooting after her.

When they were a few minutes down the road, Sylvia noticed Oswald becoming weak. He was losing blood, fast.

"Oz, move aside."

"I can do it—"

"You're bleeding and you don't know where to go," Sylvia snapped. "Stop the fucking car, and climb in the back."

Seeing that she had another plan in mind whereas he had been improvising, Oswald stomped on the break and climbed into the back, grimacing painfully as he teetered himself into the back seat. Sylvia strapped herself into the driver's seat, and gunned the gas pedal.

"Where are we going?" Oswald asked painfully.

"To a safe house."

"We have a safe house?" Oswald asked incredulously.

"Yes." Sylvia responded.

"How do we have—"

"While you were accusing me of sleeping with Galavan and betraying you," said Sylvia, looking at him through the rearview mirror, " _I_ was building safe houses."

Oswald stared at her, drifting between lucid fainting and impressive awe.

"All that sneaking around at four in the morning," mumbled Oswald looking up at the roof of the car from his back.

"Yes," said Sylvia.

"Why didn't you tell me..."

"I honestly don't know," Sylvia said truthfully. "I blame it on self-preservation."

He had no response to that, even though Sylvia was certain he would've had one ready. He was starting to get quiet, and she bit her bottom lip knowing what that meant.

"Stay down," Sylvia ordered.

"No problem," he muttered.

She ducked as she hit the gate; the officers guarding it were all up in an uproar—no doubt an APB was placed on them. She straightened, glancing carefully at the rearview mirror to see the officers pointing their guns and starting to fire at the car; but by the time they'd thought to fire, the car was already halfway down the highway.

"Don't fall asleep, Oswald." Sylvia said, reaching behind to the backseat and patting his leg. "You need to stay awake."

"Considering the fact that I've not slept in days," Oswald responded vaguely, "I doubt that's possible."

"Well, find the fucking will and do it," Sylvia snapped. "Once we get to the safe house, we'll be fine. But I need you stay awake."

Oswald grumbled under his breath. He sat up, hissing. She couldn't imagine the pain he was in—then again, she'd been shot in the neck a year before, but she passed out the moment it happened. Sylvia put the pedal to the metal, shooting down the road like a speed racer. Once she was in decent perimeter, she drove the car into the woods, going as deep into it as vehicular possible.

If the car was off the road, it would be harder to track. Further from the safe house, the better—but for Oswald's sake, it had to be within a reasonable walking distance. He would be weaker, and less compliant than usual. She jumped out of the driver's side and trudged through the vines and foliage, opening the back seat.

"Ozzie, grab my hand."

With the hand of his better arm, he held it out towards her. She took it, and pulled him out. She wrapped this arm over her shoulder and neck; her other arm went around his waist, hooking him to her.

She was strong enough to push a 21-year-old man up a pillar when she was pissed. Sylvia had no doubt that she could string along her husband through the woods for two miles with just her rage alone; the fact that he was hurt made her rage burn that much brighter.

She lugged the two of them through the woods, following her personal markers for two miles. By herself, she could walk two miles in about 30 minutes, and that was at a leisure pace. With Oswald, it had taken her about 40 minutes, and she was sore by the time they reached the trailer.

Vanderhill had been good on his word—the safe house was small, nothing anyone would look twice at, and it would serve its purpose. Sylvia opened the door and Oswald mumbled something; at this point, she couldn't understand him. He was frequently drifting in and out of consciousness. Quickly, she closed and locked the door and laid him down on the couch.

Sylvia said softly, "Talk to me, Oswald. Remember—you can't fall asleep."

Oswald looked up at her irritably.

"That's it," said Sylvia, smirking. "I'd rather you be irate with me than die on me, so deal with me for another hour, okay?"

Per her request, Vanderhill had stocked the trailer with plenty of First Aid supplies, to include splints and a few crutches which were all located in the bathroom.

There was nothing in the refrigerator, but all the non-perishables were in the cabinet.

Sylvia grabbed several items from the bathroom and pulled off her dress jacket, throwing it to the floor and folding her sleeves above her elbows, after undoing the vest she wore and throwing it over the arm of the couch. Oswald watched her, more in loving awe at how quickly she moved—or maybe the time of his reality was all just relative and she was moving at normal speed...he couldn't be sure.

Oswald looked at her with a great deal of confusion when she undressed his upper half, but didn't seem to give a damn. The pain of the tweezers digging into his shoulder didn't nearly affect him—she'd masked his pain with numbing agents from a syringe she'd poked him with only a minute before she began digging.

When she stopped minding him, Oswald looked at her. Confused, again.

"What?" He asked.

"What do you mean 'what'?" Sylvia asked lightly.

"Did you get it?" Oswald asked, licking his lips.

"Yes." Sylvia answered. "I got the bullet out. It wasn't a clean shot, but…it should be okay now. I stitched you up, and you're all bandaged up. The bleeding will stop momentarily…but we're going to need more help eventually. We can't stay in this trailer forever."

"Mmm..." Oswald mumbled, looking at her. From the waist up, he was bandaged. His arms were free though.

He felt light-headed, but ironically giddy—despite everything that had happened to him. To _them_.

"What did you stick me with?" Oswald murmured.

"Morphine," Sylvia answered gently. "You can go to sleep now, Oswald."

"Don't tell me...me what to do," Oswald muttered before he laid his head on her lap and slipped deep into a sound sleep.


	39. Little Sister's Loyalty

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Little Sister's Loyalty

* * *

Bodies lined the floor. The Morgue would definitely have their work cut out for them.

Jim leaned against the pillar, arms crossed, eyes front. Four bodies were lined up together, and they would be later identified as Tiffany Rubberdale, Freda, Marcy, and Henry.

At that moment, Jim wouldn't be able to pick out from the many bodies that replicated their outfit, but Sylvia's voice echoed in his mind:

" _Your cops just took out my kiddos... And the man you're protecting killed my mother-in-law..._ "

Jim could think of many things he regretted in the past. Protecting Galavan may be one of them. His sister's voice was full with pain and suffering. Not even twenty-four hours ago, Sylvia had told him—spoken from her own mouth—that Galavan had not just kidnapped and killed Gertrud Cobblepot, but also had tried to kidnap his own sister.

And she was so desperate to seek revenge on their new Mayor that she was willing to shoot Harvey Bullock. Sylvia was capable of a lot of bad things; Jim knew this too well. Shooting and possibly killing Harvey was one of the last things Jim thought Sylvia would be able to do.

Just as she spoke, her voice was riddled with hatred for Galavan. He knew her though; both he and Sylvia did well to cover their guilt, sadness, and panic with anger. And she was more livid that he'd ever seen her.

Despite all of that, what did he do?

He kept protecting Galavan.

He could argue that it was his duty; it was about sacrificing his personal values in order to maintain justice and that sort of thing. It didn't stop Jim from feeling the burden of guilt...he was a good cop tonight, but there could have been no better example of being a shitty brother.

It was something that Sylvia always put on him, and something he would always try to counter. But Jim doubted this time that she was wrong.

They'd lost people—Martinez, included. But so had she.

 _Your cops just took out my kiddos…_

"The car smashed through the main check point; guards at the gate said it wasn't Penguin driving," Harvey said, walking towards Jim. "They gave a good description of Sylvia in Penguin's clothes."

Jim glanced at him.

"She helped him get away...and not to add salt to the wound, but also put a gun to my head," Harvey said. "You know what that makes her."

"An accomplice, I know."

Jim kept his arms crossed, glowering ahead at Galavan.

"We lost people," said Harvey.

"Good people." Jim reiterated. "Martinez was one of them."

"Sometimes the good guys have a bad day."

"Vee lost a lot of her people too." Jim reminded.

"So, we _all_ had a bad day. It happens. It's not your fault."

"I know." Jim agreed. "It's _his_."

Harvey followed his gaze to the person in question. Theo Galavan was sending praise towards the GCPD for having done a spectacular job, reporting all kinds of facts about his family's grand history and how everything needed to the be forged before it could be solid steel.

"Got any way of finding her?" Harvey asked.

"Who?"

"Little Sister," Harvey answered. "You know Barnes is going to ask you to lure her out."

"She won't come to me," Jim said knowingly.

"You're her brother."

"Am I?" Jim asked quietly.

Harvey cocked his head to the side, confused.

"I had a choice," said Jim, glancing up at the reporters who were fueling Galavan's leadership qualities. "I had a choice to be there for her, but I chose to keep Galavan safe. Penguin may have lied, and Butch may have lied, but Sylvia tells the truth."

"Not all the time, Brother," Harvey reminded. "She's lied in the past."

"She can't lie when she's angry," Jim pointed out. "When she's pissed off, she's as honest as a nun."

"So, Galavan's dirty," said Harvey. "We can prove it to Barnes...somehow...but Sylvia is gonna be looked at as a criminal. She helped Penguin escape, _drove_ him to safety."

"She's his wife," Jim muttered weakly. "I wouldn't expect anything less from her."

"And she's your sister—Jim, Captain Barnes is going to make you look for her. And when we find her, she'll have to be treated like any other criminal we put away. Odds are, she's gonna go to Black Gate unless we cut her some type of deal. And the only way she's going to find some lenience is if she gives up Penguin."

Jim shook his head: "No deal, then."

"You don't think she'd give him up?" Harvey asked skeptically.

"She's hard to live with," Jim admitted. "And she's hard to talk to when you have to eat your words, and she can be a real hard ass when it comes to giving out free pity, but if there's anything that keeps Sylvia worth having around is that she is loyal. She's proven that to me several times...and I can tell you right now, Harvey, there is no way she will give up Penguin. She'll go to Black Gate before she does."

Harvey sighed, "We're in deep dog doo-doo for this one, aren't we?"

"We sure are." Jim agreed.

As the speeches finished, and the news media disbanded, Jim told Harvey to go home. Most of the action was done for the day, and Harvey was ready to take the plunge in a neck-full of whiskey and gin.

"Detective Gordon," Galavan greeted with a wide smile.

"Mr. Mayor," Jim returned with less enthusiasm.

"You catch my speech?"

"I think I've heard enough speeches," Jim responded dryly.

"I had such high hopes for you," Galavan said, shaking his head.

Jim felt immediately attacked.

"I thought you were prepared to make the hard choices," Galavan stated, disappointed, "to do whatever it takes to get rid of Gotham's monsters."

"I am," Jim challenged. "I've just decided that I'm gonna start with you."

"Dangerous words when addressing the man who now controls this entire city."

"Desperate times."

"They _are_ indeed."


	40. A Friend In Need Is A Friend Indeed

Chapter Forty: A Friend In Need Is A Friend Indeed

* * *

Oswald lied in bed, under the covers, asleep.

Sylvia stood in the bedroom doorway, watching him. She could take care of him so long as the supplies lasted, but what she had told him was true: they could not stay in the trailer forever. She kept him drugged with the morphine she tapped into syringes, kept the wound clean with the sterilization antibiotics and peroxide, but she had less than a day's worth.

She'd either have to venture out of hiding and rob a pharmacy, or get some help.

"Pigeon..."

His voice pulled her out of her deep reverie. Sylvia stepped forward, looking at him imploringly, only to realize that he wasn't _asking_ for her, per se. Instead, he was dreaming about her.

He was dressed in a robe found in the closet; his torso and right injured arm was covered in gauze. Sylvia sat on the edge of the bed, her body merely a silhouette under his closed eyelids. Her hand took a gentle hold of his left, the pad of her thumb stroking the top of his knuckles.

While he could dream under his drug-induced sleep, Sylvia remained riddled with pain.

Gertrud. Tiffany. Henry. Marcy. Josh. Freda.

All of them had died—at Galavan's expense. Her hatred for the man became that much deeper; the glower in her eyes became that much darker. What she wanted was to see Galavan suffer to the point where he, too, would be begging for his life.

And then, there was Jim.

Soulful, good-cop, Detective James Gordon.

 _Despite_ knowing the trepidation that Galavan had caused and despite knowing what she had lost, her brother still had insisted on following through with protecting the Mayor of Gotham. Sylvia had to commend his efforts of sticking to the good-cop persona, but it pissed her off something awful.

"Pigeon..."

"I'm here, baby." Sylvia cooed, rubbing Oswald's hand with hers.

He murmured more in his sleep, but his words weren't distinguishable. He tried to turn on his side where he slept the best, but unfortunately that was his injured half.

"No, baby," Sylvia said softly. "Stay on your back."

"Mmm..." Oswald pouted—still asleep.

He was in limbo, between being half-awake and half-asleep. He could hear her voice, know she was talking to him, but whether he was completely aware of his surroundings was still up for debate.

Jim could be a great brother when he wanted to be. But how often would she become a victim to his good-cop ideals. He should know by now, surely, that it was hard to be a hero in Gotham. No heroes. That type of mindset was not permitted to exist in Gotham; it simply couldn't.

"Mmm..." Oswald sighed, smiling a little. He turned on his left, his uninjured side, facing her.

Sylvia watched him curiously when his left hand held hers more firmly. He opened his eyes, looking up at her.

"Hey, Ozzie."

"Hi." Oswald answered, smiling at her.

"Morphine still kicking?" Sylvia asked.

He nodded.

"Feel any pain?"

"None."

"Good." Sylvia said, patting his hand.

Oswald looked at her curiously, lifting his hand to her hair. It was cut to her neck but he seemed to notice that it was back to its natural copper.

"Pretty..." Oswald hummed, smiling at her.

"Yes, the dye wore off."

"Pretty."

"Thank you, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."

"Okay..." He mumbled, and he closed his eyes.

He was out like a light.

Sylvia interlaced her hand through his hair, gently massaging his head then his neck. Oswald let out a peaceful sigh, one that she rarely heard. In his drug-induced state, he was probably the most peaceful, compliant patient known to mankind.

"I need help," Sylvia said quietly, rubbing his neck with the pads of her index finger and thumb. "We can't stay in this trailer forever, you know. I can't call Jim...I'm pretty much a felon at this point."

Then the idea occurred to her.

Sylvia stood and walked into the living room. She searched through her pant suit, the one she'd worn to the gala, and rummaged her fingers inside each pocket before she found her cell phone. She'd taken it off GPS-mode, not wanting the FBI or who-the-fuck-ever else was tracking the signals to find her.

She looked through her contacts.

Everyone she had in her phone were either dead or connected to the police, or being interrogated by the GCPD at this point. Gabe, Victor—none of them would work.

" _Fuck_ me." Sylvia growled.

She put a dent in the wooden coffee table.

"What the fuck am I to do…." Sylvia groaned. "This whole fucking situation is like a goddamn math equation, and god knows I can't do the fucking math. The only person that could probably configure a fucking answer out of thin air is Edward Nyg..."

She widened her eyes.

"Nygma." Sylvia repeated, looking at her phone.

She searched her contacts.

About this time, it was night fall. Her phone read 9 PM... maybe it was an hour's difference, but otherwise, it was nightfall. She doubted Ed was at work during this time.

She dialed and then waited.

 _Ring, ring…._

"Hello?" Ed answered.

"Ed!" Sylvia whispered. "Ed, where are you? Are you at work?"

"No. Liv, it's nine o'clock, why are you calling me at this hour?"

"Are you busy?"

There was a pause as he said slowly, "I mean…. yes, but not really..."

"Is this a riddle?" Sylvia questioned irritably. "Because I don't have the patience for a riddle right now."

"You sound troubled."

"I'm more than that—it's a long story. But you're not at work?"

"No."

"Is Jim there with you?"

Another pause: "No, of course not. Why would he be?"

"I just needed to know," said Sylvia cryptically.

"Liv, are you okay?"

"No," she whispered. "I'm not. I'm very fucking far from being okay. Edward, I need your help. Some serious, _serious_ help. I'm in a world of shit right now, and I don't have anyone else I can turn to."

"Oh sure, no... give me one minute, and I'll—what do you need from me?"

"I need you to come to me." Sylvia said desperately. Her panic resurfaced at the possible flicker of assistance.

"Well, it might take me a little bit."

"Why, where are you?"

"You won't believe it," said Ed humorously. "I'm in the woods."

Sylvia paused saying, "Why the fuck are you in the woods?"

"I'm taking care of...something."

"Ed... what woods are you in right now?"

"Why are you asking?"

"Just fucking tell me, goddamn it," Sylvia snapped.

"The woods just off of Highway 202," Ed answered quickly.

Sylvia stared at her phone.

"How far are you from the highway?"

"About a mile—Sylvia, what—"

"Ed, you are _literally_ a mile away from me if you're where I think you are," Sylvia said firmly, getting to her feet. She glanced out the window. "Do you see a trailer near you?"

"Of course not. I chose this place because it was secluded…."

"Why do you need a secluded forest?"

Ed was silent for a second.

Sylvia smirked saying, "Ed…. What are you trying to bury something in the woods right now?"

"I... No, I'm not."

"You're lying."

"It's a friend…."

"Edwarrrrd…. I know you're lying."

"Well, it's half-true. She is a friend," said Ed truthfully. "So, you want me to walk into the woods to find a trailer? Do you have any idea how macabre that sounds?"

"Don't tell me what I think." Sylvia muttered. "I've had a long day. Look, just start from the highway, work your way down. And when you see a trailer, let me know."

"Okay, but I should really finish what I've started."

"Edward, this kind of important," Sylvia insisted.

"Okay, fine...give me about ten minutes."

"Fine."

"Liv."

"What?"

"Just so we're clear. Did you _want_ Jim to be with me when I come by the trailer or—"

"No, Ed. Just bring your happy self." Sylvia clarified.

"Fine by me. I'll be there in ten."

"Fine by me."

They hung up.

Sylvia waited, standing in the doorway of the bedroom to watch Oswald continue sleeping. She got rid of the suit and pants that she'd masked herself in for the gala; instead, she now wore black leggings and a dark, navy blue T-shirt.

When she heard a timid knock on the door, Sylvia put on her black flats and peeked through the window. Seeing Edward, she opened the door, grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.

Ed barely had time to straighten his glasses before she closed the door with a sharp thud and locked it.

"What's happened?" Ed asked quickly. He glanced at the thick bandages and the dried blood on the couch before turning to her with alarm: "Are you hurt?"

" _I'm_ not." Sylvia returned.

"Well, just so you know, I _have_ dabbled in a little minor—however basic—nursing."

"I know you have." Sylvia stated, taking his arm and moving him forward.

"So why did you ask me to come when...ohhhhh dear." Ed stopped in his tracks when he saw who lied in the bed. "Is that Mr. Penguin?"

"Yes," said Sylvia. "That's Penguin. _He_ needs your help."

"Well, do you have any—"

"No," Sylvia answered. "I did, but most of the supplies are down to scraps. I can't keep him here anymore, Ed."

Ed nodded, saying, "The prognosis looks better than what I could hope, though. A few days of rest, some change of bandages, and he should be tip-top. Did you get the bullet out?"

"What the fuck am I, Ed? A simpleton?" Sylvia questioned indignantly. " _Yes._ I got the bullet out. It wasn't easy."

"Did he put up a fight?"

"No, I sedated him."

"He let you do that?"

"I'm his wife," said Sylvia pointedly. "He lets me do whatever I want to him."

"A little TMI but otherwise, alrighty-then," Ed accepted the fact gracefully. "The GCPD's been talking about you. How have _you_ been?"

"Galavan's a fucking sociopathic murderer and my husband is shot in the shoulder. My people were shot dead by my brother's fantastical 'Strike Force', and I'm on the run," said Sylvia cynically. "How well do you think I've been?"

"Okay," said Ed calmly. "I asked a stupid question."

"Obviously."

"We can move him to my place," Ed offered.

"Do you get much tread with the police at your place?" Sylvia questioned protectively. "The last thing I need is a fire war because I brought you into this."

"No one comes to my apartment anymore," Ed chuckled.

"You said that...weird. Why did you say that weird?" Sylvia asked. "And why did you just chuckle like that?"

Ed cleared his throat saying, "Okay, so I can bring my car around and we'll just heave him into the back seat on three—no problem."

Sylvia eyed him suspiciously, but Ed wasn't about to give more details than needed. He talked more about different healing agents, and the medieval ways that old-time healers used to make people better; herbal remedies, juice—it was a great deal of information to take in, but Sylvia listened to it because…. well, Ed was helping her out when she needed it most; at the least, she could do was listen to his factoids.

* * *

Sylvia and Ed carried Oswald into the apartment—Ed carried his arms, avoiding moving the shoulder as much as possible while Sylvia held his legs. After counting to 'three', they put Oswald on the bed in perfect synchronization. Still doped up on meds, Oswald fell right to sleep.

Ed pulled back the blankets with minimal effort, and placed it over him. Sylvia took over, tucking him in.

"Why do you do that?" Ed asked, pointing to the tucked in sides; Oswald reminded him of a swaddled baby at this point.

"That's how his mother used to tuck him in," said Sylvia.

"Ah. Okay, then."

After a minute passed where they awkwardly watched Oswald sleep in silence, Ed turned to Sylvia.

"Would you care for something to drink?" Ed asked.

"Please."

"Coffee or something stronger."

"What do you think?" Sylvia questioned.

"I have a bottle of gin in the cabinet."

"That'll work."

"Gin, it is." Ed said, grinning widely.

He pulled two cups from the top shelf and placed both exactly beside each other, not a single centimeter off. Sylvia watched him closely, noticing that he hadn't stammered or stuttered or paused awkwardly at any point during their conversation. He didn't appear nervous or uncertain of himself.

That, in itself, was odd.

"Edward."

"Hmm?"

"Who were you burying in the woods?" Sylvia asked.

Ed looked at her curiously.

Nonchalantly, he asked, "How do you know it was a 'whom' and not a 'what'."

"It was a friend, you said."

"Could've been a dog."

"It wasn't a dog," said Sylvia knowingly.

Ed cleared his throat, looking away from her. But it wasn't out of embarrassment or guilt. Instead, she noticed it was more out of modesty. Like he wasn't trying to brag.

"Who was it?" Sylvia asked more firmly. "Come on, Ed. You saw the secret I was hiding. How about a little give-back? I could really use a bit of juicy gossip after the couple days I've had."

Ed nodded, understanding her side of it.

"Well, if you _must_ know," he said slyly. "It _was_ a friend. I wasn't fibbing about that. But it was a close friend."

"Kristen?" Sylvia guessed.

Ed smirked: "You're a hard character to stump."

"So, you did it, huh?" Sylvia mused. "You killed your girlfriend."

"Well, in her defense, she really didn't deserve it."

"You told her about Dougherty, didn't you?"

"Again—it's hard to stump you."

"I know you, Edward Nygma." Sylvia said softly. "And I know how much you like to boast about your intelligence. But I have to ask."

"Ask away, please."

"How'd you kill her?"

"I strangled her."

"Ah."

"It was an accident, of course."

"Accidental death _does_ fall under the category of 'killing'." Sylvia reminded. "So, no exceptions there."

Ed looked at Sylvia for a long time. Longer than what might have been deemed acceptable or appropriate. It was like a light bulb had gone off in his head, and a puzzle piece that had been evading his small jigsaw puzzle had finally been located and put into its rightful place.

"Sylvia."

"Yes?" Sylvia asked.

"How is it that you can accept what I've done?" Ed asked.

"Look what I'm married to," Sylvia returned, gesturing behind her to Oswald. "Ed, you're the closest thing to a friend that I have."

"What about your people?"

"Well, for starters, my people are dead now," said Sylvia quietly. "But they were under my employ long before they became my friend."

"That Tiffany girl?"

"I killed her fiancé," said Sylvia. "Her verbally, physically abusive fiancé. After I killed him, I had some of Oswald's employees throw his dead body in the river. Tiffany was never my friend—not completely. She owed me a debt, and in doing so, she was endeared to me."

Ed interlaced his hands together, watching Sylvia speak of the dead as though they were discussing dinner reservations. It didn't escape her either.

"We have a lot in common, you and I," Ed noticed.

"I see you," said Sylvia quietly. "I've seen what you truly are, Edward. Before you killed Dougherty, and before you killed Kristen."

"You knew before I said anything."

"I did," she admitted.

"Is that because you know me so well?"

"Not really, Ed. I don't know much about you, to be honest. I know you like riddles—but so does everyone else. You love science, you like anatomy, and you have an odd, if not dire, obsession with order. Aside from killing abusive assholes, we don't have much in common," Sylvia commented. "But I know what it's like to hide your true self, and I know the kind of crap you have to put up with—those officers at the GCPD hardly respect you."

Ed nodded, agreeing to everything she said.

"Do you think…." Ed began.

"Do I think what?"

"If I asked Mr. Penguin, do you think he'd guide me on this sort of new journey I'm on?"

"Maybe," said Sylvia, shrugging.

"Or could you?"

"I'm not the mentoring type," she said politely. "However, if you want to learn how to make intestine origami, I'm more than open for business."

"Uh…."

"Just kidding. My plate is kind of full at the moment."

"Speaking of which, are you hungry? I like to cook, especially for other people."

"Sure." Sylvia said. "I can eat."

"Excellent." Ed said, grinning widely. "Should we wake him up for dinner?" He gestured to Oswald.

"I think he's fine for now." Sylvia reassured.


	41. Dinner With Mr Riddles

Chapter Forty-One: A Dinner with Mr. Riddles

Prior to Sylvia using the shower, Ed brought out a light blue night dress from the closet, neatly folded on the toilet seat cover, along with a robe of the same color, placed on the hook behind the bathroom door.

It was upon Ed's insistence that she freshen up, and she didn't have to be told twice. The smell of stale air and sewer grime from the warehouse had convinced her and she was just praying he wouldn't mind ("No, no, _please_ , I insist").

Walking out in said clothes and robe, she looked at the garments Ed had offered to her out of hospitality; she sat at the small dining table across from him in front of a large bay window. He had prepared a light meal for them to eat, and even set aside another plate in any case Oswald woke up hungry.

"Whose clothes are these?" Sylvia asked, flapping her wrists so the sleeves moved up her elbows where she could roll them.

"Ms. Kringle's," Ed answered.

"You gave me clothes that belong to a dead person?" Sylvia questioned, raising her eyebrows.

"Well, they're the only things here that would probably fit you, given our height difference," he said practically. "And, if I am not being too bold, I figured you wouldn't mind, owing to your past."

"Right on both accounts," Sylvia agreed, shrugging indifferently. "Thank you, Mr. Nygma."

"You are very welcome, Mrs. Penguin."

They shared an amusing chuckle before Ed offered her another glass of gin. The 'glass' was no ordinary glass; instead, it was a measuring cup for pancake batter. His was very much the same. As he topped the glass off to its 2-cup marker, he placed the bottle between the two of them, adjacent to their plates of steak and mashed spuds. The clinking of silverware on dining plates and the small slurps that followed were, at first, the only sounds in the room for the longest time.

Sylvia side-glanced Oswald in bed. He was nestled deep under the heavy comforters. Sometimes, he would turn, whimper in pain in his sleep, and then roll reluctantly on his back once more. He'd woken up a few times; seeing Sylvia, however, he'd assumed he was in the same trailer in the woods, and there was no cause for alarm. He'd fallen back to sleep when she asked.

Ed followed her gaze to the bed, and said logically, "He'll be fine here."

She quickly looked at him, startled by his comment.

"I know," she said quietly.

After a moment, she wiped her mouth with a napkin and then took a long drink from her glass. She looked at Ed, who returned her simple gaze with a curious one.

"Edward."

"Hmm?"

"Do you like working in Forensics?" she asked.

"For the most part," Ed answered. "More or less, 90% of the time, I like it."

"And what's the other ten percent, mind I ask?"

"I don't mind at all," Ed reassured. He, too, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said honestly, "The last ten percent is actually split" (he gesticulated as such by miming cutting something in half) "between several factors."

"And they are?"

"The people I work with," Ed answered. "On the one side, there is the imbecilic team of police officers; they only care about the first and second paycheck…people like Harvey Bullock give me a headache. On the other side of the ring, there's Dr. Thompkins. _Lee_. I don't mind her—she can be a little nosy from time to time, but no more than the rest of them. She nearly caught me when I found Kristen's body..."

"What do you mean 'found'?" Sylvia returned. "You're the one that killed her. So you would already know where she is. There wouldn't be any need for discovery."

"You would think so," Ed replied, smirking.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, without getting in the specifics, I inadvertently had brought Ms. Kringle's body to the morgue, and then—here's where it gets funny, you'll like this—I inexplicably mapped out a game of riddles where the _other_ me, per se, would find her. That me found Ms. Kringle's body in the morgue where the other me had put her. Lee almost caught me."

Sylvia stared at Ed.

Ed looked at her as though it was the simplest thing to understand.

"I can see why you're looking at me, confused," Ed reasoned. "It sounds _crazy_ , but that's how it happened."

"So the other you...is not Ed?" Sylvia asked.

"Not in the same sense you understand."

"So you're telling me there's more than just you in your head?"

Ed shrugged, "I guess that's one way of putting it."

Sylvia interlaced her fingers together, looking at him closely.

"Am I talking to _the_ Ed?"

"Not really," he admitted.

"Then who am I talking to if I'm not talking to Edward Nygma?"

"It's that person that I'm still figuring out," Ed admitted shamelessly. "I know I want to become him, but I don't know how."

She was looking at him with a raised eyebrow. "You're still you, aren't you? You still have the same memories, you remember our friendship."

"I do," He responded, sighing deeply. He said darkly, "I don't have MPD, if that's what you're asking."

"I wasn't. And it's no longer called 'Multiple Personality Disorder'. They don't call it that anymore. It's 'Dissociative Identity Disorder' now."

"I didn't know that."

Sylvia smirked saying, "See, dear. You learn something every day."

"That, I do," said Ed, nodding. "However—back to the point—I'm not crazy."

"No one ever said that, and even if you did have such a mental illness, you would still not be crazy. But, it's not uncommon for people to have D-I-D and be aware of their own different personalities. Sometimes, multiple personas can co-exist all within a single catacomb. Most of the personas lie dormant while a dominant one takes control. It's quite common." Sylvia explained.

Ed stared at her, his lips parted in impressive awe.

"See, Mr. Riddles," Sylvia teased. "You're not the only person who's smart around here."

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to."

Ed opened his mouth to speak, but for once, he was left speechless. He took a long drink of his gin, grimaced as the dry alcohol torqued his jaw and throat, then looked at her simply.

"Let's say I did have this split identity," Ed stated hypothetically. "For amusement purposes, shall we?"

She nodded, gesturing for him to continue with his theory.

"Sure," said Sylvia. "Fine. Let's go with that. Let's say the nervous, socially awkward person that I first met in the GCPD is _the_ Edward Nygma. If that was him, who are _you_?"

Ed smiled but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm not sure," said Ed, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the hooked handle of the measuring cup he used as a glass. "I've been uncertain...going down this path. I know I want to, but I don't quite know where to start. Does that make sense?"

"Incredible sense," said Sylvia. "But I don't think it's because you 'don't know where to start'. I think it's that you just don't know where to go from here. You've already started though, you know. Killing Dougherty, and Kristen—two marvelous steps, and everything starts with baby steps."

Ed gazed at her intently, like he was deep in thought and not completely there. He leaned forward, folding his arms over the table.

"Where did _you_ start?"

Sylvia chuckled, "I told you I'm not the mentoring type."

"But you can be an excellent advisor in the mean time," said Ed interestedly. "Besides, now that you know what I am and I've known what you are...I think it's time we get to know each other on a more intimate level."

"Out of context, Edward, that sounds _really_ suggestive."

Ed smiled saying, "I apologize for that" while not seeming apologetic at all.

Sylvia leaned back in her seat.

"Alright then. I technically killed something when I was fifteen," said Sylvia lightly.

"Really, now?"

"Yes, _really_ now." Sylvia imitated, smirking at him.

"Who was your first?"

"Our family dog," said Sylvia quietly.

Ed gave her a disappointed look.

"Don't give me that scowl," said Sylvia harshly. "This dog was like family. And it was an accident, mind you."

"What happened?" Ed asked curiously.

"He was hungry," she said. "So, being the person that I was, I gave him food. Or at least, what I thought was food. It wasn't until our dad brought him to the veterinarian that I found out what I really gave him was rat poison; I thought it was _sugar_ that I was putting on doughnuts."

"That's unfortunate," said Ed sympathetically.

"Yeah. Jim cried for _days_ ," Sylvia uttered, glancing over at the bed to Oswald, who was sound asleep. She looked back at Ed, adding, "I felt bad for a couple weeks."

"What happened after?"

"Dad got us a new dog, same exact one," said Sylvia bitterly.

"You don't sound happy about that."

"I wasn't. And I'm still not. You don't just _replace_ your dog with an exact replica. It's not a fucking _goldfish_ for crying out loud," said Sylvia darkly, glaring at Ed, although he wasn't the target of her animosity.

"What did you do?" Ed asked eagerly.

"Nothing to the dog," Sylvia admitted. "I wanted to, though. After the new dog came, it was like our old dog never existed. Dad was happy; Jim stopped crying…they even gave Bernie's old toys to the new mutt, like he was exactly the same one that we'd lost."

Ed chuckled, "You named your dog 'Bernie'?"

"He was a St. Bernard, Edward. Don't poke fun," Sylvia responded, but she allowed herself a small chuckle. "In my defense, _Jim_ named him. I wanted to call him Cole. Like C-O-L-E but with the impartial suggestion of C-O-A-L."

Ed waited for the explanation, which shortly arrived.

"He was mostly black," said Sylvia, teasing the green beans with the spokes of her fork.

"How come _you_ didn't get to name the dog, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Dad liked Jim more."

Ed paused, saying, "James Gordon was the favorite?"

"I can't believe you sound so surprised," said Sylvia, her voice had taken on a jealous tone. "He's the golden boy, the goody-goody-two-shoes—twinkle toes. When we were seniors in high school, he was earning fairly good grades, and had all his ducks in a row; he aspired to become a foot soldier in the Army….win all these medals." She threw her hand in the air, muttering, "It made him one cheeky bastard."

Ed furrowed his eyebrows.

"What about your mother?"

"Mom was gone," said Sylvia. "When I was nine; Jim was ten, she randomly disappeared. Dad never told us what happened to her. Jim's under the impression she passed away."

"What do you think?"

"I think she ran off, found herself a hot piece of ass, and decided to tour France. I'd like to think she fell in love with a rich French guy, and every day, she has a baguette for breakfast," Sylvia answered seriously.

Ed stared at her, unsure what to say next.

"I don't know what happened to our mother," Sylvia said. "Dad said he was going to tell us when we were older; Jim joined the army, came back, joined the police academy, graduated, they were on the way home before the car crash. Jim survived, but Dad died."

"And he never left any note or anything to say what happened to her?" asked Ed sincerely.

"I don't know if he did," said Sylvia. "We were so devastated and shocked by the news that we didn't bother looking into it any further."

"Sylvia."

"Yes?"

"What makes you keep in contact with Detective Gordon?" Ed asked curiously.

"He's my brother."

"I know that," said Ed calmly. "But there's clearly a sibling rivalry between the two of you. He's this new penny, bright and shiny police officer, working and trying to keep the bad guys at bay. Straight A's, hasn't ever done a bad thing—"

"As according to _whom_?" Sylvia rounded icily. "He's done _plenty_ of bad things. He's not the shiny penny he makes Gotham believe he is."

"As _Gotham_ sees him," Ed clarified, "you two are more opposite than night and day. And clearly, between the two of you—at least with you—there's a certain animosity."

"What's your point?"

Ed sighed, "Why do you stay?"

Sylvia smirked saying, "Like I said. He's my brother. He's a fucking pain in my asshole, but he's my brother, none the less. We have a love-hate relationship; my criminal lifestyle hasn't helped it any. Regularly, he has to constantly choose between being a cop and being my brother. You've seen how many times he chooses the latter."

Ed leaned back in his seat, saying, "I think he's ungrateful, if I am being honest."

Sylvia gave him a look.

"Am I wrong?" Ed questioned.

"No, no. You're right, of course," said Sylvia, sighing deeply. "I wish you weren't though."

Ed admitted, "I personally like that I'm always right."

"I'm going to find a needle to pop that balloon-sized ego of yours," Sylvia warned, but she was smiling when she said it.

Ed grinned back at her.

"If Edward Nygma was the man that I knew before you started killing people," said Sylvia, "I'm kind of happy that you're a murderer now. Not that I didn't mind the old you, don't get me wrong. You're just more confident—women like confidence."

"Do they?"

"They do."

"Do _you_?"

Sylvia took a drink from her glass, licking her lips and making the same grimacing expression due to the alcohol torquing before she looked up at him, surprised by his question. So specific in nature.

"I do, yes," said Sylvia lightly.

Ed took another drink from his glass.

"Ed."

"Yes?"

"Did you really love Kristen?" she asked.

"Of course, I did. She was the love of my life." Ed answered.

"Even when she didn't accept this side of you?" Sylvia replied, gesticulating to his general person.

"Even then."

"How come?"

Ed stopped for a moment, then looked at her, saying, "I suppose that when it comes down to it, I just couldn't help myself."

Sylvia nodded: "That's how I feel about my brother."

"Even if he consistently lets you down?" Ed said quietly, if not darkly, "You'd still love him?"

"Pretty much. He'll fuck up, mess up, and blame shit he's done on other people. And he will leave me hanging when I need him most, but there are moments when I've needed him, and he's come through for me. I depend on him and I don't. It's really complicated," Sylvia admitted softly. "He's a police officer and I hate him for it. Love him for it too. It's pretty convoluted, now that I think about it."

"Would you kill him?" Ed murmured.

"No."

"That's interesting. From what you've told me, he's tried killing _you_ —shooting at the car you're driving to get away from the police and Galavan," said Ed coolly.

"Well, I also threatened to kill his partner; I think we're even," said Sylvia, shrugging.

Both of them took another drink from their glasses. Ed looked invigorated by the conversation, and he set his glass down sharply, smiling widely at her.

He said, "Let's do one more hypothetical."

"Alright. Fire away," said she.

"Let's say," said Ed slowly, "that we were not friends."

"This is turning out to be a _really_ tragic hypothetical."

"That's kind of you to say," Ed stated calmly, "however, for amusement purposes, let me continue."

"Sure," said Sylvia, although she'd risen her eyebrows at his assertive behavior. "As you prefer."

He was watching her with such an intense gaze that Sylvia couldn't help but feel the heat rise to her face.

"Let's say we were never friends," Ed continued. "You didn't know me. I never knew you. And why not take it a step further—let's say that you were not married to anyone—"

"Edward," Sylvia began. "This hypothetical is getting a little too personal for my taste."

"Let me finish," Ed said cautiously.

"Fine." Sylvia uttered, gesturing to him.

"Moving on with the facts that I have just provided," Ed said calmly. "Would you have ever noticed me?"

"Notice you?" Sylvia questioned. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play coy, Liv. You _know_ what I mean."

Sylvia chuckled nervously, and she crossed her arms on the table, saying, "You're right. I _do_ know what you mean, but I can't very well answer your question."

"You can't?" Ed responded calmly. "Or you don't want to, because you know whatever answer you provided would be dishonest, at best."

"That," said Sylvia, pointing to him. "That is _exactly_ why I can't answer. Or, as you prefer, why I 'won't'. The hypothetical in itself is inappropriate—Ed, questions like that can either elevate or destroy a friendship."

"And you think it would destroy it?" He said knowingly.

"On a contrary," she answered, surprisingly. "I think it would elevate it. More than I care or want to admit. On principle, I wouldn't answer it because I _am_ married. However…you've been so hospitable with my concerns and have thus far taken care of my husband" (she indicated the man in his bed) "I'll answer your hypothetical out of generosity sake, as a favor to you."

Ed nodded, smiling at her eagerly.

"Yes," said Sylvia. "My answer is 'yes'. If the facts were as you stated, I would have looked at you, Edward. I'd have looked at you, _seen_ you—you wouldn't have had to kill people to get my attention."

"You're not lying?" Ed questioned, trying to discern her honesty with that of the opposite.

"I'm not lying."

"You're not...making fun of me, are you?"

"No," said Sylvia. "I'm not making fun. Kristen saw you _only_ when you were confident. Not all women are like that."

"You're not?"

"I saw Oswald," said Sylvia pointedly. "When he and I were working for Fish, he was nervous—he wasn't assertive, or combative. No where near the same person he is today. But it's amazing what you, men, do when you want something. You'll find the courage, the means, the motive, and carry out your plans, regardless of nerves or other afflictions. As long as it's something you want—you'll take what you think you deserve."

Ed ran his tongue over his teeth, lips closed in concentration as he gazed at Sylvia from across the table. Sylvia took a long sip of the gin.

"And generally, women love confidence. They'll eat it up," said Sylvia; she was subconsciously running her hand over the rim of her glass as she added, "But there's something about a man who keeps his confidence under lock and key. It just takes a certain special someone to unlock what the other person has been hiding underneath. To see just what truly lies beneath the mask. That's not the hard part. Not really. It is letting the other person trust that you'll accept them, no matter what mask they choose to wear."

Ed shifted his jaw, the briefest flash of jealousy heating his collar, seeing what loyal flock Oswald Cobblepot had graced himself with. A loyal soldier that Jim Gordon couldn't truly recognize, something people tended to overlook. If everyone had a Sylvia Gordon, no one would ever go searching for any other allies.

"You love him, don't you?" Ed said quietly. "Mr. Penguin."

"With every fiber of my being," Sylvia returned.

"You speak passionately," Ed said, a tone of admiration in his voice, "when you talk about love. But I must know, if you don't mind telling me...Penguin has killed people, tortured people. The GCPD would call him a disgrace of a human being. That doesn't deter you?"

"Love is acceptance," Sylvia returned, her smile reached her eyes. "One must be able to accept the person at their worst, as well as when they're at their best. You can't love just the qualities you like, it's not grocery shopping. I love Oswald when he's pissed off or when he's happy."

Ed sighed.

"We may," she shuddered from the dryness, "have to dilute this stuff with some grape juice or something. It's _really_ dry."

"I was thinking the same thing," said Ed lightly. "What's your preference?"

"Preference, I have none."

Ed stood to his feet, walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a gallon of sweet iced tea.

She watched him fill their glasses with equal amounts and then placed it back in the refrigerator. After that, he sat down, looking at Sylvia apologetically.

"I hope you'll forgive me if I passed some sort of boundary," Ed offered.

"Nope, I'm good," said Sylvia. "But I have a follow-up question."

"Go ahead."

"How long have you been fancying me, Ed?"

"For quite some time."

"Even when you were with Kristen?"

Ed chuckled, "I loved Ms. Kringle. She was beautiful, feisty, and intelligent as the day was young, but...she didn't understand this part of me, this new part of my life that I've decided to explore. I'm grateful she's opened my eyes to it, but it's a shame we didn't get to venture it together."

A moment passed.

"I never noticed that you liked me," Sylvia commented.

"I never intended for you to find out."

"So why tell me now?"

Ed shrugged, "I suppose I was more curious about the hypothetical than I care to admit. And I needed to know the answer."

A few minutes of silence passed. It wasn't entirely awkward, but there was a certain shift in the dynamic.

Ed grinned in spite of himself, saying, "I hope this doesn't ruin our friendship."

Ed lifted his glass, taking a drink.

"Mm. Honestly, between you and me," said Sylvia lightly, "I'd put your pining to good use. If Oswald was into it, I'd have you both under my covers and between my legs."

Ed coughed on his drink, spluttering the tea and gin mixture over his plate while Sylvia covered her mouth as she suppressed a loud laugh.


	42. A Temperamental Couple

Chapter Forty-Two: A Temperamental Couple

It was early morning.

Sylvia and Ed were speaking in low tones when Oswald woke up. Sylvia sat on the counter, reminiscing the good old days and telling Ed all the stories that happened while she was working for Oswald (and while Oswald had been working under Falcone). She'd just finished the story about how Oswald had escaped being crushed alive in a Sedan after Maroni found out his 'true allegiance' when Oswald sat up in bed, looking at the two with uncertainty.

Ed was the first to notice the Penguin's rousing state, and when he looked in the direction of the man in question, Sylvia turned her head, noticing too.

"What's going on?" Oswald questioned, and he grimaced with pain when the wound in his shoulder became agitated from even the slightest movement. "Where am I?"

Ed glanced at Sylvia, wondering if she was going to answer him. Instead, Sylvia gestured to him, encouraging him to respond to Oswald; After all, it was _his_ home they'd imposed.

"You're in my apartment," Ed answered dutifully. "I—"

"You're not a cop?" Oswald assumed.

"No," Ed answered, laughter followed. "I'm not a police officer, heavens no. I work in forensics."

Oswald looked at himself, noticing he was wearing a robe, not his suit. Gesticulating so, he touch the fabric.

"Where are my clothes?" he asked.

"I threw them away," Ed answered. "They smelled."

Oswald began to move as though he was getting off the bed; Ed quickly (but gingerly) placed the water he'd proffered to him on the night stand beside the bed and took his arm.

"Whoa….Sir, I'm afraid you can't leave—" Ed began.

Oswald became combative and threatened Ed: "I swear, if you sedate me again, I will—"

"Sir," Ed spoke more firmly. "You are a wanted man. You can try and run, but...chances are you'll only get about three blocks from here. I'm afraid you'll be here until you've recovered."

Oswald glanced past him, a temper tantrum just bubbling under the surface. Seeing that Sylvia was not in a panic, nor did she seem as though she was held here against her will, he reluctantly (if not grumpily) pushed Ed away from him and sat back against the headboard.

"Now," said Ed, smiling. "Drink up. Dehydration is common after prolonged outdoor exposure."

Oswald pushed the glass away from him, glaring at Ed. Resigned, he placed the glass on the night stand in any case Oswald wanted it back. Chances are, he wouldn't. But optimism.

"What do you want from me?" Oswald demanded.

"Fate is an ambiguous thing," said Ed. He glanced at Sylvia, saying, "Don't you think, Liv?"

At the sound of the nickname, Oswald glanced suspiciously between the two of them, debating the levity of their friendship.

"I'd have to agree." Sylvia noted; she didn't look at either of them, in favor of pursuing the gallon of iced tea to pour herself another glass as well as adding a gin tonic to the mix.

Ed continued, "Recently I've been going through a certain kind of change. What change you ask—"

"—I didn't—"

"—I've started murdering people," Ed blurted.

This stopped Oswald in his tracks, looking at the man with a more disarmed expression.

After the pause, Ed said happily, "Wow, that is still so thrilling to say."

"It gets old after a while," Sylvia said from the kitchenette side of the small studio apartment. She sipped through a blue-striped straw, saying from the corner of her mouth, "Almost boring."

Ed and Oswald glanced at her indicatively before Oswald questioned, "How many people?"

"Three, in total," Ed answered.

Oswald tittered. Compared to himself, Ed's game was lacking.

"Two of them, I didn't care about," said Ed. "But one of them was my girlfriend, Ms. Kringle. She was the love of my life."

"If you're planning on killing me, could you get on with it? At this point, it'd be a welcome relief," Oswald replied wearily.

Ed looked affronted before he quickly sat on the edge of his own bed saying to Oswald, "No, no, no. Mr. Penguin, I have no ill intentions towards you."

"If he did," called Sylvia, "I'd have gutted him by now, believe me."

Ed cleared his throat, very aware and having forgotten that Sylvia was a killer all by herself. And standing behind him, somewhere in his apartment.

"Then what _are_ your intentions," Oswald demanded, eying him closely.

"Sylvia…?" Ed called, looking at her curiously.

"Don't stop now, Ed. You're doing great," Sylvia said, sitting on the piano, waving behind her encouragingly.

Oswald glanced again between the two of them, still trying to figure out just exactly what kind of friendship they shared.

"I need advice. These murders changed me. And like the butterfly, I have come to realize that I cannot become the caterpillar once again," Ed said bravely. "And I know you are one of the most notorious killers. I brought you in part….well, Sylvia called me asking for my help...and I was kind of hoping you could guide me on this new path."

"Listen, friend..." Oswald began.

"Ed."

"Whatever," he said dismissively. He stood to his feet, and Sylvia watched him as he staggered towards the window, looking out.

"He's not changing his mind," Ed muttered as he stood beside her.

"Well, he's depressed," Sylvia reminded under her breath.

"My empire is in ruins," Oswald said sadly. "I'm a wanted man with no friends…."

"Excluding me, of course," Sylvia uttered towards Ed, sucking the tea through the straw with a roll of her eyes.

"…And my mother, the very person I've sworn to protect, is dead because of my weakness," Oswald continued (whether or not he heard her was up for debate). "So..." He turned sharply, sending Ed a challenging look. "Wanted man or not, I'm leaving."

He took one step, and then hit the floor with a thud, passing the hell out.

Sylvia started towards him, concerned.

"Oswald..." She said quickly, poking his arm. "Ozzie?"

"Don't worry, it's his blood pressure," Ed said lightly, although he took into consideration how quickly Sylvia had rushed to Oswald's side. "We have to get him back in bed."

"Sure." Sylvia said, nodding her head.

She placed her drink on the table, and as she took Oswald's knees, Ed gingerly wrapped his arms around Oswald's torso before they hoisted him up and none too easily walked towards the bed, and laid him down.

Sylvia looked at him, bringing a hand to her mouth so she nervously bit her nail.

"Are you sure it's just his blood pressure?"

"I am," Ed said confidently. "He's lost a lot of blood, and hasn't really walked much since getting out of bed for the first time."

"That's not really helping me."

"In short: He's fine. Just a minor case of hypotension. Once he starts drinking water and eating, he'll be right as rain." Ed said, gently patting Sylvia's back.

"I guess you're right."

"I _know_ I'm right."

"Remember that needle?" Sylvia said lowly. She touched his forehead with her index finger, and whispered, "Pop. There goes your balloon head."

Ed sighed, "How much gin did you put in that tea?"

"Just a little." Sylvia answered, smiling widely. "I'm more of a vodka kinda gal, but I gotta say: this gin-and-tea thing is like the best fucking thing ever. It's really kicking my ass."

"You're inebriated."

"I'm living la vida loca, baby," Sylvia said, smirking. "And you should be so lucky."

"Maybe you should lie down as well."

"The hell I am," Sylvia retorted, only to stumble forward and stub her toe on one of the legs of the wooden chairs. She let out a spew of curses before muttering, "Okay….maybe you're right."

She lied next to Oswald, and cuddled against him. Ed watched her, and draped a blanket over the couple before returning to his chair to complete the most recent crossword of the Gotham Gazette.

* * *

Now sober, Sylvia sat at the dining table. Even as Ed offered her a second plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, she declined it. Her eyes took on a glossy sheen as her thoughts pulled her back to what was her past, and all the things leading up to the present. Her and Oswald's declination to Galavan's first proffered idea of cleaning Gotham, and then the blackmail that had led them to their current situation.

The entire time she'd been here, Jim was calling her phone. Whether that was because his captain was persuading him to lure her out of hiding because she was an accomplice to the attempted murder on Galavan or perhaps Jim was just worried about her well-being, Sylvia wasn't sure. So she didn't pick up the phone.

It wasn't until earlier that morning when she woke up to a voicemail on her phone, which was now sitting in the middle of the table, becoming a beacon to Sylvia's deep reverie.

Ed noticed the expression on her face slowly depressing to that of concern and even remorse. Sensing the depth of her own state due to the tragic and unfair passing of her mother-in-law, Ed scooted his chair so he could sit beside her.

"You're in deep thought this morning," Ed cared to note aloud.

"Am I?" Sylvia said distractedly.

"I'd say so."

She looked away from the phone, to him: "I'm considering turning myself in."

This made Ed stand saying, "You're a wanted woman, Sylvia. You're not going to step one foot in the police department before they cuff you!"

"Don't think I know that?" Sylvia questioned. "It's circumstantial data at this point, Edward. The only people that know I was there are Harvey, Jim, Galavan, and Oswald. For all the media vultures know, I barely threatened Galavan's life."

"It doesn't matter—Captain Barnes put an APB on you, Mr. Penguin, and the car—"

"I trashed the car."

"But you're still on the missing persons list," Ed said. "Sylvia, listen to reason."

"I've never been more reasonable in my entire life," Sylvia argued, turning to Ed sharply. "I'm _not_ someone who buckles down and waits to be found. I am not the type to hide. I thank you for your hospitality; you've been a good friend, but I _cannot_ sit here. And there's this."

She handed Ed the phone.

"What about it?"

"God, just listen to the fucking voicemail. Please?"

Ed sighed, shaking his head but he did as she asked.

It was Jim's voice: " _Vee, I know you did what you thought was right. Honestly, if I was in your position, I'd probably have done the same thing. In my eyes, you've done nothing wrong. You protected family….that's something I haven't done in a long, long time. I protected Galavan, but you have to understand my position….but if it makes any difference, I was wrong. I need you to come home though, Vee. I don't know if my word will sway Captain Barnes but I know Harvey has no hard feelings for what happened, and neither do I. I love you, Vee._ "

And the voicemail ended.

"Have you considered the fact that this may just be his way of pulling you from hiding," Ed said slowly, holding the phone indicatively towards her.

"He sounds sincere to me," said Sylvia. "I nearly fucking passed out when I heard it the first time."

"You've listened to it more than once?"

"I had to. To make sure I wasn't delirious."

"Liv," Ed began. "What you're thinking of doing isn't rational."

"You don't know a damn thing about me, Edward, if you think you can persuade me to change my mind," said Sylvia coolly. "Jim can be a real tool, but he's not about to lie and say he misses me when he doesn't. He's not trying to pull me out of hiding; he just wants me to be safe."

"He wants you to be safe?" Ed repeated incredulously. "You are safe here. With me."

"Jim doesn't know I am here."

"His idea of 'safe' is you being locked in a cage," Ed pointed out.

Sylvia frowned, looking at him: "You better think _really_ hard about the next words that come out of your mouth about my brother because you're _really_ close to getting my foot in your mouth."

Ed held up his hands slowly, as a small surrender.

"I'm not trying to offend."

"Well, you're not trying hard enough."

Ed smiled at her wasp-like tone before he said delicately, "You said it yourself. How many times has Gordon been more of a cop than your brother?"

Sylvia frowned deeply: "You think Jim is really trying to put me behind bars?"

"I think it's not his ulterior motive, but that may be one of the reasons he made this call," said Ed, pointing to the phone now sitting on the table. "And here you are, once more...wanting to end the feud, make up….become the good sister again."

"I _am_ a good sister," Sylvia snapped. "And you're fucking rude to imply otherwise."

"I wasn't implying that." Ed said quickly, keeping his hands up in surrender. Cautious. "Look..." He scooted closer to her and she eyed him dangerously. "You and I haven't known each other long, but we _know_ each other."

"I have been a great sister to Jim," said Sylvia darkly. "Many times. I've saved his ass a few times, even. But there is _no way_ that he would have called me, just to lure me out and slam me in a cage. Maybe Barnes originally put him up to it, but he may very well have a plan to get me out of the situation I'm in. If that's the case, I can be free. And if _that_ is what his intention is, I can very well aim to clear Oswald's name so **he** doesn't have to hide either."

Ed put his tongue inside his cheek, his mind working in overdrive. He put a hand on Sylvia's shoulder gently.

"The odds of that following are extremely slim."

"But the chance is still there," Sylvia reminded. "And if there's a chance I can put Galavan behind bars, I'm taking it. If I can't kill him, then I'll take the silver medal. I don't care."

"Galavan _is_ in jail. He's being held in confinement for kidnapping Aubrey James," Ed informed.

Sylvia gave him a look saying, "Even better. Then I can add to the case, add Gertrud's death to the mix, and make sure he fucking stays there."

"Sylvia—"

She stood, so Ed did too.

"You're not talking me out of it."

"But, hear me out."

Sylvia looked at him, challenging him. Ed took her hand in his.

"Listen to me." Ed urged. "There's a chance that Gordon's word will not save you."

"It has saved me in the past."

"And you think it will save you once more?" Ed rationalized.

"It's Galavan's word against mine," Sylvia reminded. "It's a criminal's word against mine."

"You're a criminal too."

"But I'm an honest criminal."

"That won't matter to a man like Barnes."

"It won't have to," Sylvia stated.

"Sylvia—"

She started towards the door. Ed kept her hand in his, holding it more firmly so she had to stop in place, lest her arm be ripped out of its socket.

"What?" she responded loudly.

Oswald stirred in his sleep.

Ed glanced at him then let go of Sylvia's hand, realizing he was keeping her against her own will. And that was not something he had intended to do. He held out his hands to her though, hoping to tame the fire before it completely spurred out of control; he had no idea just how temperamental Sylvia was, until now.

"Stay," Ed said. "If not for your own sake, then for Mr. Penguin's. If he realizes you've gone, he may not stay either."

"And if I go and get his name cleared, then I will have been vindicated." Sylvia returned, gesturing to her husband. "I told you, Ed. I am not a person who can duck down and wait for the storm to blow over."

"Rather, you'd prefer to walk straight into the eye of the tornado and hope it doesn't crush you to death?" Ed replied sardonically.

"I'm about _this_ close to punching you in the face."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you did."

Sylvia put her hands on her hips, saying, "It's not just about me, Ed. Jim doesn't make those types of phone calls unless he thinks he's in danger."

"So if he's in danger, you're going to go straight to him and end up getting yourself in trouble too?" Ed said incredulously. "That doesn't exactly follow any type of logic known to man."

"Well, luckily for me, I'm a fucking female." Sylvia replied, smirking. "Now, be a dear, give me my phone, so I can find my brother. Odds are, he's in a world of hurt and he's making the phone call like he's about to die."

Ed hesitated. Only for a few seconds before he grabbed her cell phone from the table and walked it over to her. Before she could take it, he pulled it back. She gave him a hateful glare before he offered it to her.

"I'm grateful for your hospitality and everything you've done for my husband and me," said Sylvia sweetly, looking at him. "However, never let your crush on me get in the way of your own self-preservation. Because if you had argued with me one more time, I would have punched you in your ballsack."

With that said, she wrapped her arm around him and then left shortly after. Ed watched her leave, looking then at the bed where Oswald was still asleep.

How Oswald managed to temper the hurricane that dwelled in Sylvia was yet another thing he wanted to understand, but with her, it seemed better to learn with practice than from theory.


	43. Sylvia's Modus Operandi

Chapter Forty-Three: Sylvia's Modus Operandi

* * *

It wasn't hard to figure out where Jim was. She only had to call one person to figure it out.

"Harvey," he answered the phone like clockwork.

"It's me," Sylvia said, walking through the alleys.

She was moving through the darkest ones, holding a switchblade in her hand, the blade already out to show the other low life, two-bit criminals that she wasn't the damsel they needed to mess with tonight.

It also sounded like Harvey had gotten himself something to eat, since she could hear chips crunching just against the phone.

"Little Sister?" Harvey gasped.

"Yeah."

"How you been?"

"I've had better days."

"You're not lying."

"Where's Jim?"

Harvey chuckled, "Jimbo gave you a call, huh? Yeah, he said he would."

"Are you fucking with me right now?" Sylvia hissed.

"Nah, just getting my fair share of payback for when you put a gun to my head, but don't worry. All of that is just water under the bridge, Little Sister." Harvey said sincerely. "I know why you did it—can't say I blame you."

"Aw, that's sweet. So, where's Jim?"

"He and the good ol' captain went to Galavan's Penthouse."

"Why?"

"To get more goods on Galavan, of course—he's in jail, awaiting trial, that sort of thing." Harvey answered, chomping on what might have been a chili dog.

"All right. Thanks, Harvey."

"You're not going there, are you?"

"Jim left a message on my phone."

"You know the moment Barnes sees you, you're under arrest?" said Harvey knowingly.

"Yeah, I'm tracking that. I'll talk to you later."

She hung up. And then she headed towards Galavan's Penthouse.

* * *

Getting there was the easiest part. Remaining invisible was where things got a little murky.

Outside of the penthouse suite was what looked to be a montage of police cars, fire trucks, the works. Sylvia noticed that most of the officers were sitting quiet, waiting for further directions. Or perhaps, as her humor darkened, they were mannequins, having been whacked earlier on. And that's why Jim was calling her—as a last resort for back-up.

It wouldn't have been the first time he did that—she and Jim had taken down Sionis when his cop friends hadn't come through for him. Criminal or not, Sylvia was reliable.

She called Jim, taking the risk. Hopefully, only he would answer—no one else.

When he did, Sylvia let out a sigh of relief.

"This is Detective Gordon."

"It's me," Sylvia responded just as she did with Harvey.

"Vee?"

"Yeah. I'm coming up."

"Don't!"

"Why?" Sylvia asked, looking around to make sure there were no threats.

There weren't any. At least, none she could see.

"There are people out to get me," Jim said calmly. "Assassins."

"Someone is _always_ out to get you, Jimmy—that's kind of like your job," said Sylvia callously.

She slowly snuck around the police cars; dead or not, the officers weren't going to spot her. Sylvia ducked under a low hanging beam then slid into the side door of the penthouse suite, making her way up the stairs. She had an odd De Ja Vu from where she'd been led up to the floor by Tabitha Galavan before she and Oswald had declined his offer of deconstructing Gotham to make way for a 'brighter' future.

"Do _not_ come up," Jim hissed.

Was he trying to hide the fact that he was on the phone with her? Only one thing could be certain was that Captain Barnes was with him, trying to listen in.

"Someone tried to kill you," said Sylvia. "And your cop buddies are just sitting like ducks in a pond down here. What's happened?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying to me."

"I'm not."

"Where's Captain Barnes?"

"How do you know he's with me?"

"Harvey told me," said Sylvia truthfully. "You and Barnes are looking for more evidence to pin on Galavan. By the way, thanks for telling me he was in jail—that would have really helped me sleep in the past couple of nights."

"Vee…."

"What?"

Sylvia was halfway up the staircase before a slender youthful man, dressed up in ninja-like garb, holding a machete, stepped forward, pointing it at her.

"Ah," she muttered on the phone. "Now, I see what you mean by 'assassins."

"Why?"

"There's one in front of me right now."

"Vee, get the hell out of here; they're not playing!"

"Well, neither am I!" Sylvia snapped.

The ninja stepped forward, slinging his machete over his head, to the side, and did some fancy twirling. She reached behind her, pulled out her hand gun, and then shot the man in the head. He fell over the banister; he and his machete clattered to the ground.

Having dropped the phone, Sylvia now squatted and placed it against her ear, "You were saying?"

She opened the double doors, noticing that the lights had been extinguished. And the door itself seemed to have been broken down, half-ass exploded by a bomb. She cautiously opened it, aiming her gun ahead of her and the moment she stepped inside, two guns cocked, aiming at her, in turn.

It was Captain Barnes and Jim Gordon who sat on the tile, ducked out of view at first until they peered out from behind the turned over table to see who it was that arrived to shoot at them next. She saw Jim on the phone, having been speaking to her (as she suspected) in front of Barnes. They both hung up simultaneously, and Sylvia nonchalantly closed the door, pushing a bookcase to barricade it.

As she approached, Barnes still held his gun towards her.

"You're a suspect," he said darkly. "You get on your knees..."

"You can arrest me," said Sylvia coolly. "Or, you can use me as an extra man—what the fuck happened to your leg?" She holstered her weapon, and gestured to the busted artery in his thigh which was spurting blood.

"Stabbed with a knife," Jim answered, sheathing his own weapon. "Vee, I told you not to come."

"If you didn't want me to come," said Sylvia, "You'd have never left a voicemail. Especially one so sweet and endearing as the one you left me."

Barnes glared at her: "You're under arrest for the—"

"Save it, Cap'n." Sylvia returned politely. "You're injured, and outnumbered." She gesticulated behind her. "You should thank me actually. I just took down one hell of a ninja assassin that had a machete. He did some pretty fancy moves back there."

"What'd you do to him?" Barnes questioned.

"Shot him in the head."

"You killed him?"

"We'll never know," she answered truthfully, shrugging. "He fell down four flights of stairs. I didn't bother to check for a pulse, but I'm pretty sure _that's_ what killed him. And are you going to arrest the stairs? I doubt you are, Captain Barnes. So, chill out."

Barnes looked ready to spontaneously combust but Jim looked happy enough to see her. Sylvia glanced around, noticing the dead bodies sitting around them, cold as ice.

"You've had some fun up here, haven't you?" Sylvia said slyly, nudging one of the dead culprits with the toe of her flats. "So, have you figured out why they're all trying to kill you?"

"We don't know," said Jim.

"When's your ambulance coming?" She asked.

"We don't know."

"Your back-up?"

"We don't know that either."

"Do you know _anything_?"

"I know," said Barnes coldly, "that you're a wanted woman. And if you have any nerve or figuring in self-preservation, you'll stop talking. Use the right to remain silent."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," said Sylvia. "I've done nothing wrong."

"You put a gun to Harvey's head." Barnes stated.

"Harvey says otherwise."

"He told me."

"Well," said Sylvia slyly, "maybe you should talk to your detective again. He seems to think that I was just joking—we have an odd sense of humor, you know."

"We have witnesses at the gates, saying that _you_ were driving Penguin out of the area where Galavan was attacked," Barnes argued.

"Did they say I was wearing Penguin's clothes?"

"Yes."

"So were fifty other culprits," said Sylvia smartly.

"She has a point, sir," Jim offered.

"Don't even," Barnes threatened, pointing at him. "You have a conflict of interest, son. Your word can't collaborate with hers."

"He's a witness to the defense," said Sylvia. " _My_ defense. And you're more than welcome to check the cameras. But you see. _I'm_ redheaded."

"You could have dyed your hair."

"Where's the box or the can?" Sylvia mused, smirking at Barnes.

"This is fucking ridiculous," Barnes said, grimacing with pain.

"You're telling me. I'm not much of a lawyer, but I'd say that all your 'evidence' is circumstantial, and that'd be grounds for a case dismissal. If you think I'm wrong, consult Harvey Dent." said Sylvia. She looked at Jim, who was grinning at her the entire time. "You look terrible."

"Thanks." Jim quipped, rolling his eyes at her, but he was still smiling. At the end of the day, he just loved seeing his little sister come through for him—yet again.

"So, _he's_ bleeding out," said Sylvia darkly, looking at Barnes apathetically. "You, James, are here because…. you wanted to get the goods on Galavan."

"Yeah."

Sylvia looked at Barnes, saying, "If you want the perp to stay in jail, Captain, I'd offer my testimony. But I doubt you'd want to hear it."

"You're still an offender in my eyes."

"Mm, that may be so. And it's not untrue. I'm an offender. I've offended a _lot_ of people. I don't have any idea what I did to _you_ that makes you act so rudely towards me though."

Barnes blinked and blurted, "You're the Penguin's fucking wife."

"And I piss sitting down. These are facts we know," Sylvia retorted, flourishing her gun towards the ceiling dismissively. "Are you going to disparage me because of my marriage—which is _legal_ by the way. I figured I should throw that one out since you're so fucking gay for legalities."

Barnes' face was turning red, and he glared at Jim insistently. However, Jim didn't even try to suppress the grin that cracked on his face.

"What's so funny?" Barnes interrogated.

"Sir, with all due respect…." Jim began, but Sylvia interrupted.

"You know, I never understood that phrase," she said flippantly. "The whole idea behind it is to pay due respect to the person you're talking to, but the content that comes out is usually disrespectful and highly offensive. It's like the phrase 'no offense, but...'. Like, that whole phrase is paradoxical. Anything that comes after the 'no offense' is also very offensive and oftentimes confrontational in nature."

"She's a talker," Barnes muttered painfully.

"Yep." Jim uttered.

"I hear Aubrey James is going to testify," said Sylvia, looking at both of them skeptically. "Think he's really going to do that?"

"He'll be on the stand, taking the oath to tell the truth," said Barnes. "If he wants Galavan in jail as badly as the rest of us—"

"He doesn't," Sylvia interjected. "He wants to be left alone. Him and his mistress...or his wife...or whatever. I hear he's married and has a mistress, but I guess the whole story about him having a second lover was all bogus so Galavan could keep him tied up and tortured here."

"So, he says," Barnes agreed. "And we're going to make sure he gets there. And there's nothing you can do about it."

"Oh please," said Sylvia, rolling her eyes. "I'm not going to corrupt your legal system from sentencing Galavan to prison. Please, _do._ If I can't see him dead, I'd rather see him rot."

"So, you're admitting to trying to kill Galavan?" Barnes questioned.

"No. I'm admitting nothing. Because I've done nothing," said Sylvia coolly. "And if you want to pick my brain, I figure you've got about an hour to do so before you bleed out to death, Captain. You know. With all due respect."

Jim chuckled, "Vee, you're lucky the Captain is down."

"I'm lucky?" Sylvia returned, crossing her arms. "He's the lucky one. I don't fight invalids."

Barnes growled, but he chose to stay on the ground, holding his thigh.

"You're insufferable," said Barnes, glaring up at her. "You know that?"

"That's funny being on the recipient side of it," She giggled. "That's normally what I'm telling Jim. Ain't that right, Slim-Jim?"

Jim nodded, smirking at her. She grinned back at him.

"What the hell is so funny?" Barnes growled.

"Nothing. Just you know. Inside jokes. You're not the laughable type." Sylvia stated. "So, you wouldn't understand."

There was movement downstairs. Sylvia cocked her gun.

"Don't you fire that weapon!" Barnes demanded.

"Sorry," Sylvia retorted, grinning sarcastically at him. "I'm not one of yours—I don't take orders from _you_."

Jim stood protectively in front of Barnes, who remained seated; he kept a gun in his hand the entire time, uncertain whether to aim it at the front doors or at Sylvia who he could hardly trust with a butter knife, never the less a loaded weapon.

"What's your plan of attack if they come up here?" Sylvia asked, glancing sideways at Jim.

"Fire until they stop moving," Jim answered.

"For once, we agree on something."

They remained standing side-by-side, still aiming their guns at the entrance. Sylvia casually glanced behind her to make sure there were no peepers coming up. She looked at Jim endearingly, smiling a little since she felt closer to him; and he felt the same way too.

"Did Barnes persuade you to call me?" Sylvia asked quietly, glancing at Jim. "Or did you call me on your own initiative?"

"Why do you even have to ask that?" Jim inquired.

"Why do you think?" Sylvia replied coldly. "You're a cop one day, a brother the next. Sometimes, I wonder why you just can't be both."

"You make it hard to be both."

"I don't make anything hard," Sylvia hissed. " _He_ does." She gestured her eyes in Barnes' direction. "You and I were mostly fine in the old days."

"When _Loeb_ was Commissioner, you mean."

"Well, we had a common enemy," said Sylvia. "Instead, you and your fucking Strike Force are constantly laying into my husband and me. It's not exactly something I like to partake on a weekly basis."

"Your hands are dirty, Vee."

"Yours aren't clean either."

"I'm doing my job."

"Oh, fuck me, not this old argument again," Sylvia returned.

The movement continued. Then it came up the stairs.

Jim lowered his gun immediately when a fellow officer called from behind the barricaded door.

"Detective Gordon, it's me!" said a female's voice.

"It's Parks," Barnes said; he shook his hand, saying, "Push the bookcase back."

"Who the fuck is Parks?" Sylvia demanded, still keeping her gun raised.

When Jim moved the barricade from the door, Officer Parks walked inside; she held her gun firmly, drawing it suddenly from her holster belt when she saw Sylvia standing opposite of her. Jim grabbed Parks' hand that held the gun.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Jim breathed. "No, no…. Parks, she's with us."

"The hell she is..." Barnes muttered.

"For now," Jim corrected, looking easily at Parks. "She is."

Parks glanced at Sylvia cautiously. The officer looked friendly enough, but Sylvia gave Jim a second glance.

"Put it down, Vee. Parks is good."

Sylvia frowned, lowering her weapon. She held out her hand to the officer, who looked at Jim and Barnes for confirmation that it was legally and ethically okay to shake the hand of a woman like Sylvia Cobblepot. When Barnes scowled but Jim nodded, Parks took Sylvia's hand and shook it warily.

"I'm Sylvia."

"Officer Parks."

Jim grinned a little, that was until his phone rang. He answered it. From the way it sounded, it was as though the back-up had arrived and the ambulance was sure to come. However, there was a lot of cross fire from where Sylvia was standing and then silence as the voice spoke directly to Jim.

Jim looked less than thrilled, and the entire time, he looked at Sylvia as he spoke.

"Who is this?" Jim snarled. "…. Is that name supposed to mean something to me? … I won't…. In fact, I'm coming down."

"What the hell is going on down there?" Barnes demanded.

"We got another hitman," Jim informed, glancing between Parks, Barnes, and Sylvia. "He's just taken out all of our back-up."

"Convenience," Sylvia sighed. She smiled at Parks sarcastically, "You're a rookie, right?"

She nodded.

"Get used to _that_ happening a lot in Gotham," said Sylvia disparagingly.

"You shut your mouth," Barnes snapped. "I am _tired_ of your cynicism."

"Well, it's realistic," Sylvia piped. She glanced at Parks, and muttered, "But seriously. Get used to it."

"I'm going down to end this," Jim interjected before his sister and the captain could get into another squabble.

Barnes turned from Sylvia to tell Gordon indignantly, "He just killed four cops! You're not going anywhere on your own!"

"He's not," Sylvia returned, stepping beside Jim. "He'll have me."

"And _you're_ a wanted suspect!" Barnes rounded, pointing at her. "You stay right where I can see you. And James, you're not going anywhere alone."

"He's right," said Parks, nodding. "I'm coming with you."

"No," Jim said. "You're staying with him. Make sure he doesn't bleed out."

Barnes growled, "I just said you're not going down there solo. We'll make them come to us."

"We stay here," Jim debated, "We're sitting ducks. He's after me, Boss."

Barnes had a lot to juggle. In one aspect, he'd lose his prize man. In another, he would be protecting his rookie, Parks, and keeping her out of sight and out of harm's way, himself included. He looked at Jim for what felt like minutes before he resigned.

"Go," he sighed.

Jim nodded and he started walking.

"You," Barnes ordered, pointing to Sylvia. "Go with him."

"You just said I was a suspect," Sylvia recounted.

"Consider this your get-out-of-jail-free card. Make sure my boy stays alive," Barnes said strictly. "And I'll grant you a pardon. And this is the only time I'll make the exception."

"Fine," said Sylvia. She followed Jim, stopping at the entrance as she turned around.

"But I'm only doing this because I _wanted_ to go with my brother in the first place. I only take orders from one man, and you, Captain Barnes, are definitely _not_ him." Sylvia verbalized.

Jim grabbed Sylvia's arm and pulled her into the elevator with him as Barnes curled his upper lip, already regretting his lapse in law-abiding.

Standing in the elevator with her, Jim sighed deeply.

"So..." Jim uttered quietly. "Was this your plan all along? Come save me, gain Barnes' trust, and grant yourself total immunity?"

"It was the idea, but not how I would have planned it," said Sylvia. "But it was a very small possibility. Ultimately, I came to protect my big brother."

"How did you know I was in trouble?"

"You have an odd way of showing affection. You only show it when you're knocking on death's door. It's amazing to me how much affection you've shown Lee in the past," said Sylvia, shrugging. "I shouldn't be surprised though. She's your lover. I'm only your sister that comes to save your honorable ass all the time, but what do I know. I'm sure all the criminals do that for their siblings."

"I'm sensing a great deal of sarcasm."

"Good, because I'm laying it on pretty thick."

Sylvia and Jim glanced at one another. Then they laughed.

"What's your plan for getting this guy?" Sylvia asked, pulling her gun out and counting the rounds that remained. Aside from the bullet in the ninja's head, she still had a full magazine.

"The usual."

"So, you plan on using minimum force?"

"Yeah."

"That's a terrible plan, as _usual_ ," sighed Sylvia.

"You get a jail free card, you might want to start taking my advice."

"If I did that, I'd be bored all the time."

"It's my way that saved Aubrey James and put Galavan in bars."

"No, it's not," Sylvia called him out on it. "I talked to Harvey on my way here, caught up—he said you went with Barbara to a fucking church. Before that, you kissed her in the interrogation room, _in front_ of Lee."

"Technically, not illegal."

"Well, it may not be illegal, but it's certainly questionable," said Sylvia. "Ethics are more about law, James. I hope you and Lee have had the time to talk that one through."

"Not exactly."

"Well, once we kill this assassin that has just taken out four of your cops, I bet that will be a wonderful conversation to look forward to," said Sylvia coolly. "You want to do the honors, or me? Personally, I've not had a good killing since…. see, I can't even remember when I last killed a person. That's how long it has been."

"You're trying to be funny, but I'm just proud of you for saying so."

"I'm not," said Sylvia. "I've been bored for a long fucking while."

"And we're not killing this guy."

"Go fucking figure."

"He has to remain alive."

"So, I can maim him, then."

Jim thought for a moment, glancing at Sylvia before he shrugged saying, "You know what. Why not. Have at it."

The elevator door opened, and Jim caught her shoulder, pulling her back as he emphasized, "But _don't_ kill him. We need to find out who he's working for and who put the hit on me."

"Fine by me." Sylvia said. "A man can still testify without his legs, right?"

"Technically speaking, yes."

"Then I'll be cutting off some legs."

"You're insufferable."

"So, you and your captain keep telling me."

Sylvia and Jim got out of the elevator and they both edged towards the front of the building.

"You hold him," Sylvia muttered. "And I'll punch him."

"You'll punch him to death."

"Well, I could stab him if that would make you feel better, but I figured giving shiners would be more practical to your plan."

"Still sensing that sarcasm."

Sylvia and Jim glanced at each other, noticing the fallen officers either lying over the hood of the cars or on the wet concrete. Outside, it was dark. Only the moonlight and dim street lamps to offer any type of vision. It was out of the blue that a man arrived with black hair and streak of light pink, came throwing a chain over his head and around his body like a human wrecking ball.

The chain caught Sylvia first, and it struck her down too quickly, knocking the breath out of her lungs. Jim avoided the next throw, glaring at the very assassin that aimed to kill him.

"I see you brought a friend!" He giggled maniacally. "I'll bet she'll be tasty too."

Jim was already aggravated. The threat of this man eating his sister just fueled his rage further.

Sylvia stumbled to her feet, holding her face from where the chained whip had struck her. But this cannibal was after Jim, not her; so, she remained invisible. The two of them were tangled in long punches and side-steps before she stood and tripped him; he landed on his back. Jim straddled the offender's lap, and stuck the barrel of the gun into his mouth, threatening to end his retched life.

Sylvia had waited for him to see his own darkness, to even taste it a little. But seeing Jim in such a way made her desires fleeting.

"Jim..." Sylvia whispered. "Remember? 'Don't kill him', remember that's what you said?"

Jim chose not to look at her. He knew that if he did, he'd remember why he wouldn't pull the trigger or stab Sionis, or anything to the affect. Every time he saw Sylvia, thought of her, he'd remember that what made them different people was their ethics—the law separated their values, made them different. The line that Sylvia would pass would ultimately be his own boundary, the one he vowed never to cross.

"James, look at me." Sylvia urged.

"I can't," Jim said, shaking his head. "I... _won't_..."

The assassin wasn't helping; the man under Jim was egging him on, nodding his head vigorously, somehow smirking even with the loaded gun in his mouth.

Sylvia stepped forward, grabbing Jim's head in her hands and made him look up at her.

"Remember Lee," Sylvia told him. "Remember your moral compass—your damnable morale?"

In those few seconds, he saw the difference between black and white, between what was right and what was easy. By God and his very soul, he wanted so desperately to pull the trigger.

"Think of Lee," Sylvia said again. "Think of Captain Barnes…. What would Mom and Dad think?"

Jim glared at the man underneath him. This man who had caused so much misery and pain. So far, every single criminal that had been placed behind bars, they'd managed to show the legal system itself was corrupt.

Pull the trigger…. Do it…. that's what the assassin was egging him to do. When the man kept making these inaudible but encouraging threats, Sylvia finally moved behind Jim and kicked the son of a bitch between the legs, silencing him.

He could do it…. but then what would his sister think? What would his father have thought?

The inner cop inside pulled him back, and Jim stood, getting up.

The maniac chuckled deeply, "Oh baby, you disappoint me", then started to get up.

"Vee..."

"On it," Sylvia piped, and she took his place, sitting on him.

The maniac smirked at her. She put Jim's gun inside the man's mouth once more, and she grinned down at him.

"Don't think you're getting off the hook, hungry-hungry-hippo," Sylvia said snidely. "My brother won't blow your head off, but I'm more than happy to do it."

Tiredly, Jim said from the side, "And she'll do it. Trust me."

The cannibal gulped, looking at Sylvia fearfully.

"That's right. Be scared." She whispered. "And if you so much as move your fucking finger, I'll make sure you'll never hold a fucking gun in your hand ever again—or anything for that matter."

Jim glanced at his sister cautiously, making sure to note that she wasn't going to kill the perp, but keep him scared.

"You have the right to remain silent..." Jim began reading his rights while Sylvia sat on the perp, watching him with unblinking eyes. "You have the right to an attorney…if you don't have one, the government will provide one for you..."

When the back-up arrived, Sylvia was ordered to move aside. They immediately started reading _her_ rights but as Capt. Barnes was being seated in the ambulance, Sylvia was resisting arrest.

" _He said_ I was innocent," Sylvia snapped, keeping her arms out of reach from the arriving officers. "Barnes!"

"Let her go." Barnes ordered.

Jim glanced at Barnes, more surprised than anything that the captain was going to be good on his word.

"She came to help," he said, "knowing that she may be detained on sight. She kept my detective and rookie officer safe, and she helped the GCPD take down a cannibalistic psychopath. Let her be."

"Thank you," Sylvia returned, glaring at the officer who attempted to gather her wrists to cuff them behind her back.

Jim looked at Sylvia tiredly, but grateful that she had arrived when she did. Barnes was being transported to Gotham General Hospital; Officer Katherine Parks was taking the perpetrator to lock-up to be detained and processed. At this point, Jim could breathe a little easier. While evidence was taken and the like, he and Sylvia sat on the hood of his car, looking at the Galavan penthouse with a little ease.

"Galavan's in prison," said Jim, looking at her.

"Yeah."

"I thought you'd be pleased."

"I told you before," Sylvia exhaled exasperatedly. "I want him dead."

"If you killed him, what would you feel after?"

"Vindication."

"Is that what you call it?"

"Vengeance, then." Sylvia returned curtly. "For you, you call it 'justice'. For me, it'll make it easier for me to sleep. Gertrud may have been Oswald's biological mother, but she was my mother too, the closest thing I ever had to one...at least since Fish."

"I thought you hated Fish."

"I hated how she treated Oswald," said Sylvia, nodding. "Sometimes, she would treat him more like a dog than an employee. And she'd treat me the same way."

She paused.

Sylvia said quietly, "Do you remember when she came back from the dead? Wearing that punk stuff."

"Yeah. She had Harvey and me strung up by our wrists. Along with Falcone and Penguin. Not exactly a memory I like to relive, Vee."

"Yeah, but during that time, right before she locked me in a fucking janitor closet, she talked to me...told me how she wanted me to still be her girl, how she treated me like her own daughter," said Sylvia softly. "She wasn't too far from the fact. Some days, she called me 'baby girl'. And during those moments, my life lit up like a Christmas tree."

"Why are you telling me this?" Jim asked.

"I'm sharing a moment with you." Sylvia explained. "All we do is bicker. I want something more than that. I actually want to talk to you and have moments with you that I don't feel so bitter about. Don't you want the same thing?"

"Yeah," said Jim, nodding.

Sylvia sighed, "I tell you this stuff because I want you to understand how much I detest Galavan. Yeah, he kidnapped my mother-in-law. Yes, he threatened me, and my husband. Yes, he kidnapped the Mayor, and rigged the election and made himself the only contender. And, he put Oswald up to the task of killing the mayoral candidates, and setting the fires, but ultimately, he **killed my mother-in-law.** His sister did, I guess...technically. But it might as well have been ordered—and in my line sight, there are no exceptions."

Jim said quietly, "Not everyone sees it the way you do."

"I'm not asking for everyone to see it my way." Sylvia reasoned. "I don't care what Barnes thinks about this whole ordeal, or Harvey, or _anyone_. I want **you** to see it the way I see it. To understand why I feel the way I feel."

"I _do_ understand," Jim insisted.

"Then meet me halfway."

"You just kept me from killing a perpetrator…. now you're asking me to want to kill Galavan?"

Sylvia smiled, saying, "I want you to understand why I'm a criminal. I'm not in it for power, or money—that's not my M.O. I want you to tell me what it is."

Jim smiled endearingly, saying, "Love."

Sylvia cracked a small smile.

"You do understand." Sylvia whispered.

"I've always understood. I just sometimes don't approve."

"Well, that, I can live with."

Sylvia and Jim did a half-hug, since they were in company of other police officers. Sylvia side-glanced him.

"Speaking of mother figures, I've actually been meaning to ask you…."

"Yeah?"

"Do you know what happened to ours?" Sylvia asked. "Did she pass away or..."

"I'm not sure," said Jim. "Dad said he'd tell us—"

They said unison, "When we get older."

"Yeah," said Sylvia, slowly nodding her head once. "That's what he said. And look where he is now."

"Why do you think I would know where she was?" Jim asked.

"Well, you're a detective. And you were always the favorite."

Jim stared at her incredulously.

"What?" Sylvia questioned. "You _were_. With your straight A's, and bullshit medals and shit. What did _I_ ever get? A trophy, a _participating_ trophy, by the way, for getting second place in a spelling bee. That's nothing worth boasting about."

Jim patted her leg, saying, "Dad didn't have favorites."

"The hell he didn't—you were all he could talk about when you were at bootcamp. 'Jim this', 'Jim that'…. I was getting so _sick_ of hearing all these good things about you that I would _intentionally_ find ways to put myself in Juvenile school so I wouldn't have to hear it anymore."

Jim gave her a side-glance.

"So," Sylvia continued. "I thought maybe he might have told you where Mom went. Whether she was dead, or maybe they divorced sometime along the way."

Jim shrugged saying, "We'll never know."

"I think she may have liked baguettes."

Jim considered this, then said with a half-smile, "Yeah, that sounds about right. We'll go with that."

Sylvia and Jim chuckled, looking up at the night sky to notice that the clouds are started gathering and it would start to rain soon.

It wasn't a shocking thing. It _always_ rained in Gotham.

* * *

Author's Note: For the next two weeks, I will not have my computer with me since I will be spending time with family. However, when I come back, I hope to start writing the following chapters vigorously! :D


	44. A Powerhouse of Strength

Chapter Forty-Four: A Powerhouse of Strength

Author's Note: Yes, I'm back! Thank you for your patience! And here's a lovely chapter for you all!

* * *

On her way back to Ed's apartment, Sylvia thought about her and Jim's relationship. Sure, they've had their ups and downs, and sometimes, there were days where she was just close enough to hating him that she'd shoot him on principle. And then, there were days like today….like tonight, when they were _not_ cop and criminal.

They were brother and sister.

When the odds were against them. It was them against the world, them against the villains. Sylvia smiled as she drove herself back to the apartment. She'd been cleared on any charges against her, thanks to Barnes. In his eyes, for now, she was innocent, and free to do what she wanted.

And she had every intention of setting the record straight, proving that Oswald was innocent. Yeah, he _did_ go after the Mayor, and he did try to kill him, but all of that could be construed as a misunderstanding.

A moment of unclear thinking due to the grief of losing his mother to the very monster that the GCPD and the judicial system were trying to protect. And if Galavan was proven guilty, sentenced to Black Gate _permanently_ , odds are people would look at what Oswald did as a public service, not a crime.

It was a long shot, yes.

But Sylvia had a feel for the people of Gotham. They were scared for now. But fear could be used as a weapon—get them angry enough, get them bloodthirsty enough, they could hunt down Galavan and view Oswald's actions as justifiable.

Sylvia felt her phone vibrating in her jean pocket for the third time. She'd been so distracted by her reverie, she'd almost missed the call. Glancing at the ID, she saw that it was Ed.

"Sylvia," she answered hoarsely.

"Are you okay?"

"Peachy," she answered vaguely. "It's been a long night. What's up?"

"You're not going to believe this."

"Don't give me another riddle, Ed. I'm pretty tired."

"No, no, no. You're going to be happy."

"About?"

"Oswald is back to his normal self."

Sylvia scoffed, "When I was there, he was depressed. Sulky. No one changes overnight."

"You'd be surprised," Ed returned gently.

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing much." Ed answered.

"Where is he now?"

"Asleep."

"Did you drug him again?"

"There wasn't any need," Ed returned. "We just had a nice discussion about a few things, including Galavan, and his mother."

"You talked to him about Gertrud?"

"He was singing a song under his covers," said Ed. "It seemed to hold some deep meaning for him so I put it on the record—"

"Don't tell me it was—"

"Yep, the same song," Ed reassured. "And he told me what his mother used to tell him at night. Then he tried to leave."

"'Tried'? I thought you told me you didn't drug him."

"And I didn't."

"So what do you mean by 'tried'?"

"Well, long story short: I told him that his mother was dead because of his weakness and that he had to realize that his weakness was her." Ed said simply.

Sylvia stared at the phone, trying to make sure she had heard him right. She heard his voice say her name curiously, and she answered it.

"You told him that his mother died because of _him_?" Sylvia questioned irritably. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think!"

"Well, he didn't much care for it either."

"I wouldn't think so."

"He threatened me, put a knife to my throat."

"Reasonable reaction," Sylvia justified.

"And then I told him that we are better off unencumbered." Ed continued, ignoring her waspish tone. "His weakness was her."

"Gertrud never did anything wrong."

"And, by that fact, she was the only thing keeping him from being what he is," Ed reasoned.

"That woman was an angel," Sylvia said coolly. "And she didn't deserve to die. And—excuse me—you said he was better off unencumbered? Do _you_ think I'm a fucking weakness? Do you think I need to be stabbed in the fucking back!"

"Sylvia, I can tell by your tone that you don't agree with—"

"You're telling him that love is a weakness!" Sylvia snapped. "Of course I have to fucking disagree!"

"For most it's a source of strength—"

"I'm going to punch you in the face."

"Please don't," Ed muttered. "Look—"

"Hold on, I'm pulling up now." Sylvia cut him off.

She got out of her car, parked a block away and in record time, she shot towards the apartment door, and rapped on it with hard knuckles. Ed answered it warily, still holding the phone to his ear. When he saw her, he hung up, and stepped out with her, closing the door so as not to wake up Oswald, who was still sleeping.

Thank god he'd decided not to put her on speaker.

Before he could completely close the door, however, Sylvia grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the said door, glaring up at him. He had a good foot on her in height, but that didn't make her any less intimidating.

From the fight with the cannibal earlier, Sylvia had a gash on her left cheek from where the chain had snapped on her; eyeliner and mascara alike made dark circles around her eyelids and the fury burning through her retinas made Ed feel like a child again.

"Sylvia—"

"You're telling Oswald that love is a weakness," Sylvia growled. "When he's most vulnerable! And you're going to shove Gertrud's death in his face, say it's _his_ fault? Who the fuck are _you_ to tell him that!"

Ed gulped, his Adams apple quivering while his glasses slowly moved down the bridge of his nose. Sylvia pulled him to her just so she could slam his back against the door once more.

"You're supposed to be taking _care of him_!" Sylvia snarled.

"I understand you're angry—"

"STOP TALKING!" Sylvia shouted.

"Okay..." Ed murmured.

She threw him against the door again, releasing his collar; it wrinkled where she'd held him in a vice grip and she brushed a hand through her hair vigorously, turning away from him only to send a glare of daggers at him once more. Her nostrils flared.

Ed held up hands in surrender, hoping to fend off whatever rage was inside of her. Obviously the thing with her brother didn't go quite to par, but still, he was hoping that whatever fury was buried inside would not come out to today and kill him. For a small petite woman, she was fierce—and Ed was honestly more afraid of her now than anyone else in his entire life.

"I never said..." Ed said quietly. "I never said that love is a weakness. For other people—let me get this out before you kill me—for other people love is a source of strength. But for us, it is a crippling weakness. Gertrud, his mother, was a burden he had to hold onto…."

"And she deserved to die?" Sylvia questioned hatefully.

"Of course not," Ed retorted assertively.

"Oswald loves _me_." Sylvia reminded. "Do _I_ deserve the same fate?"

"You're not a weakness."

"But I'm someone he loves," she responded hotly. "You don't think that I'll cripple him?"

"No—you've made him more powerful."

Sylvia blinked, staring at him.

"Gertrud," Ed clarified shakily (trying to get his nerves under control), "could not protect herself. Oswald had to constantly make sure she was okay, and she was used as leverage."

"What the hell do you know what he had to do?" Sylvia said, crossing her arms over her chest. "You don't know anything."

"Oswald told me enough about her. Talked about her enough. I know she was the only person that cared for him—"

"Besides me," Sylvia snapped. "Besides _me_. He may have lost her, but he still has me."

"Yes, yes," Ed said quickly, stepping a pace back from her in any case she became violent again. "But he had to be reminded. In his grief, all he could think of was about how his mom died at his hands. And—wait, wait, wait—I _reminded_ him that when a man isn't encumbered by burden, he has nothing to lose."

"He has everything to lose, his life included," Sylvia said coldly.

"I think I used a different verbiage," Ed admitted, shaking his hands towards her. "I-I told him that when a man has nothing left that he loves… he can't be bargained or betrayed."

" _I_ love him!" Sylvia snarled, rounding on him. "ME! Are you insinuating that _I_ would betray him!"

Ed quickly took a step back, keeping out of her clutches, but now his back was against his own front door and he wondered just how far she would go in her fit of rage. Sylvia glared up at him, eyes wide and almost protruding out of her head; and he'd never seen such fire.

"No, no, no, you're not listening—"

"You better start making fucking sense," Sylvia threatened.

"It's simple, it's _simple_." Ed said. "He can't be betrayed, can't be bargained—his mother was leverage, but you're not! You're not a weakness, you're a….an asset, a powerhouse. But he had to realize that what he'd lost was more than just his mother….a burden…. and I was able to get through to him. He's not depressed anymore—he's happy now, and—ugh!"

Sylvia grabbed his throat in her hand, and shoved him against the door once more.

His fast-talking resonated, and the last part registered within her mind, and she let him go, looking at him with surprise. Her slack made him grateful as he put his own hand on hers, and was thankful she released him.

"You pulled him out of his mood?" Sylvia asked, her tone softening to one of genuine thankfulness.

"Yes, _yes_." Ed said, rubbing the column of his neck. "I did. He's better now."

Sylvia blinked up at him.

"You," Ed said quietly. "You're not a weakness. You're not a burden, Liv. You're an asset, you're a powerhouse of strength for him. And he sees that. And I do too."

"You're not saying these things because I was this close to killing you?"

"No. Well, yes, but I'm being honest." Ed reassured. "And I wouldn't think of pitting you against each other. But Liv, he needed to be reminded that without his mother, he can be a free man. No hiding, no pretending, nothing."

Sylvia crossed her arms, this time more in thought than fury. She looked at Ed quizzically.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"For?"

"Helping him," Sylvia said. "You were able to do what I couldn't."

"You want to mother him," Ed pointed out the obvious. "He needed a reality check."

"I don't _mother_ him."

"That's still up for debate," Ed said, although he allowed himself a small smile. "You're not his mother, Liv."

"I know that."

"You're so much more to him than that."

"I know that too."

"But he had to realize it as well," Ed said.

"And you got through to him?"

"Yes. Of course, I did."

Sylvia smiled, and it was a nice change from the fire-breathing dragon he just witnessed earlier.

"Ed."

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry for choking you. And threatening you. And yelling." Sylvia said, lowering her hands to her sides: "It's been a long night."

"I'd love to hear about it," Ed said, grinning widely. "First things first" (He touched her cheek, where dried blood was caked along her jaw line) "let's get that fixed up."

"You're touching my face."

"Sorry." Ed apologized, quickly removing his hand.

"Don't be." Sylvia returned sweetly.

She opened the door and walked past him. Ed let out a long sigh. Her words from the other night resonated in his head: _If Oswald was fine with it, I'd have you two under the sheets and between my legs._ Ed couldn't deny that seeing Sylvia in such a fit of rage had him both scared and a little turned on. And how quickly she could switch from being a ruthless dragon to that of a sweet angel had him all kinds of hot and bothered.

Touching her cheek had been a subconscious fleeting desire to get closer to her. For Oswald's sake, Ed could pretend his feelings for Sylvia were purely based on a close friendship. But there was no denying that Ed wanted her in more ways than just platonically.

"Ed?"

"Coming," Ed chirped, responding to Sylvia's call from within his own apartment, darting inside and closing the door.


	45. Until Kingdom Come

Chapter Forty-Five: Until Kingdom Come

* * *

The following morning, Sylvia stretched her arms and legs as she woke up to the sound of a cuckoo clock. Her eyes winced at the daybreak of sunshine pouring through the bay window, and she instinctively moved under the covers with a low groan.

Her entire body ached. Sore from kicking ass the night before. Why, then, did she feel like it was _her_ ass that had been put through the ringer?

Morning. Day time.

As she became more attuned with the going-ons around her, she realized she heard Ed talking, and not to himself this time.

"He actually took the job?" Ed said amusedly.

"Not at that moment," Oswald said conversationally, "but within twenty-four hours."

"Wow. A man like Jim Gordon—I wouldn't have ever thought he'd collect any debts...never the less for you." Ed said—the sound of his voice convinced Sylvia that a large smirk stretched his mouth from ear-to-ear.

"What happened after?" asked Ed, intrigued.

"Barker ended up dead." Sylvia chimed in, knowing what the conversation entailed, and sitting up from underneath the covers.

She saw Oswald and Ed sitting across from each other at the small dining table against the bay window. A glass of orange juice set before each of them and a plate of scrambled eggs and toast untouched as well; they'd just started eating breakfast, allowing herself to sleep in. No doubt that was Ed's idea.

At the sound of her voice, both men turned their heads in her direction.

Sylvia rubbed her neck, cursing under her breath as she stood up; she wore lavender-colored silk pajamas: tank top and shorts. She moved wordlessly into the bathroom and after a moment, the toilet flushed, the sink ran water, and she walked out with her shoulder-length copper locks tied in a loose bun.

Both men admired her from where they sat and Sylvia grinned modestly at them both before approaching Oswald and kissing him sweetly on the cheek. He grinned up at her.

What Ed had said last night was no lie. Oswald _did_ look more chipper, a smile genuinely reaching his eyes. Sylvia clapped Ed appreciatively on the back when he offered her the rest of the coffee on the burner.

"So Barker….?" Ed said, looking at Oswald.

"A man who owed Don Falcone," Oswald explained, rolling his eyes.

"And I'm guessing you couldn't get through to him the first time with your other minions," Ed said slyly. "You had to do it the hard way?"

"They always want to do it the hard way," said Oswald apathetically. "Barker in particular was especially rigid around the edges." (He took a drink of his orange juice.) "He believed that since Don Falcone was out of the picture, he didn't owe anything."

"He was sorely mistaken," Ed said, more or less amused.

"That, he was." Oswald agreed.

Sylvia joined them at the table, stirring creamer and sugar into her coffee wordlessly as she pulled up a chair.

"What did you do to convince Jim to go after Barker?" asked Ed, looking at Oswald admirably. "That man has a higher moral ground than anyone I know."

Oswald looked at Sylvia pointedly, and Ed followed his gaze.

"I offered to go with him," Sylvia said.

"But I thought _you_ told Jim it had be to _him_ ," Ed said, puzzled, as he glanced at Oswald. "Right?"

"I would be there for moral support," Sylvia chimed in, shrugging. "Barker wouldn't listen to me—did not like taking orders from a woman."

"So why not kill him?" asked Ed.

"If we started killing people that supported Falcone, it wouldn't have been very sporting." Sylvia explained.

"I believe I was the one that told you that," Oswald reminded, looking at her.

Sylvia caught Ed's widened gaze of shock and she said defensively, "I wanted to kill them all—you know, clean house. We were still dealing with Fish loyalists and Falcone had plenty of other capos hiding under ground."

"Not that I don't appreciate your blood thirst." Oswald said kindly, reaching and touching her wrist gently that held her coffee mug by the handle. "However, where it concerned them, business had to be conducted more professionally. Civil."

She withdrew her hand from said handle in favor of taking his hand in hers. Oswald smiled at her lovingly before Sylvia returned it, then looked at Ed pointedly.

"Oswald and I have different...managerial styles," Sylvia said, shrugging modestly.

"Clearly," Ed said, smirking at the two of them. "But you said Barker ended up dead."

"He came after Jim," Sylvia explained. "Self-defense is a real killer card. Barker shot at Jim. Jim shot back—killed him. Came back with the money, all of it, and then Oz and I paid Commissioner Loeb a visit. Got him to reinstate my brother back to the role of detective."

"Not before you insisted on killing Loeb," Oswald reminded.

"He was a prickly bastard," Sylvia returned unapologetically, picking up her coffee mug with her other hand so she could enjoy Oswald holding her other one. "He deserved to die."

"You think everyone deserves to die," Ed noted aloud.

"Not everyone."

Oswald whispered secretively to Ed: " _Mostly_ everyone."

Sylvia shrugged: "What person hasn't done something that's worth being sentenced to death."

Silence.

Before Ed said quietly, "Me."

"You killed your girlfriend," Sylvia reminded.

"That was an accident."

"An accident you're proud of," said Sylvia darkly, grinning though. "For someone who claims that killing his girlfriend was an accident, you certainly are grateful for it. But I digress."

Oswald looked at Sylvia, but not just lovingly. He noticed the small but few stitches on her cheek and a look of concern swept over him.

"What happened there?" He asked.

"Where?"

Ed said lightly, "She came to the rescue of Jim Gordon."

"Again?" Oswald responded incredulously.

"He needed my help," Sylvia said, shrugging a shoulder. "And for what it's worth, I've been cleared of any charges. Captain Barnes made an exception last night; I saved his rookie, Parks, and I saved his favorite detective so I'm off the hook."

"Are you going to Galavan's trial?" asked Ed conversationally.

"To watch Aubrey James testify that the fucker put his head in a box?" Sylvia giggled. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Him being in prison doesn't make up for half of what he's done," Oswald said bitterly.

"Killing his lackey kind of made up for it," Ed reminded happily.

"That's true," Oswald agreed, an impish smile reaching his lips.

Sylvia glanced between them curiously: "What lackey?"

"Leonard," Ed explained—as though that's all the explanation was needed.

"Who's Leonard?" Sylvia asked, looking at Oswald for clarification.

Ed answered (pulling Sylvia's attention to him) "Leonard used to work for Galavan before he was put in Black Gate."

"Cop?"

"No," Ed said, shaking his head. "But he did work for him. I found him, and kidnapped him. Put him in a chair, a bag over his head, and I had the honor of watching Oswald kill him."

Sylvia looked at Oswald, an unreadable expression on her face. Ed at first thought she was disgusted by the act of contrition, but instead, Sylvia looked more or less disappointed but not for the reasons he was certain.

"You killed someone without me?" Sylvia asked reprovingly.

Ed watched the interaction between her and Oswald—intrigued.

"I would have waited," Oswald said apologetically. "But I didn't know when you were coming back."

"Could have called me. That sounds more fun than what I was doing."

"You can kill the next one," Oswald said softly.

"Where are we going to get another Leonard?" Sylvia pouted.

"Galavan had plenty of people working for him," Ed said, drawing Oswald and Sylvia's attention on him, of which he was happy. "I could find another one—I didn't realize that killing Leonard would mean so much to you, Liv."

"Leonard means less than nothing to me," Sylvia scoffed.

Her apathy made both men grin.

"I just like watching my husband work," Sylvia said mischievously, grinning widely at Oswald, who gave a small smile back—but the smugness was swelling deep within him.

Nothing like stroking a man's ego to make him happier to be alive.

"I'll get one tonight," Ed offered.

Oswald held Sylvia's hand in his, and touched his lips to the back of her knuckles with a loving kiss, saying, "You can have this one."

Sylvia beamed.

"Fascinating," Ed murmured, looking at the both of them.

* * *

Ed went back to work. Mondays were always a hassle for him, but it left Sylvia and Oswald alone in the apartment. Sylvia was in the kitchen, making dinner: steak, baked potato, southern-style green beans. Hooked between her shoulder and ear was her cell phone as she spoke with Mr. Bell on the other line.

Oswald listened in on the one-sided conversation. From what he could tell, Sylvia still had full operation of the Underworld; even though her presence was spotty, she still managed to keep things under control. Oswald watched her pace through the kitchenette, speaking on the phone sternly.

"The club will take care of itself," Sylvia was saying as she stirred the beans on the stove. "I need you at the mansion...Dagger and Chilly are there, they're pretty much the runners at this point. Don't argue with me, Mr. Bell—you know I don't like it when you disagree with me….Well, Dagger will have to do….Tiffany's dead, Mr. Bell, she can't run the club from her grave."

Oswald detected a break in her voice when she mentioned her deceased lieutenant. Only then did he realize that Sylvia hadn't properly grieved over the loss of her employees—or rather her 'kiddos' as she had frequently called them in the past. All of them had died at their expense—Freda, Tiffany, Henry, Marcy—and they hadn't even come close enough to killing Galavan. When they had the opportunity, everything seemed to have fallen apart at the worst time.

"I have the shipment coming in from the docks," Sylvia answered Mr. Bell's question. "After it gets shipped and stocked, talk to them about increasing the tax….They're _not_ going to like it, but I'm sure you can be persuasive. Inflation's a bitch."

Oswald smirked, knowing he'd said the very same thing to the sea captains.

" _What_?" Sylvia retorted. "No—they're going to do what I say. The 'or else' is pretty much implied. If they disagree, you have my permission to get heavy-handed. And if all fails, just use Victor as a threat. They'll either bow to me or bow out—and I'm capable of accepting either…."

Oswald raised his eyebrows in response to that. He'd seen her operate as his queen, but never as the one-ruler. His current whereabouts were unknown to the police or anyone, and as far as the subservients were concerned, she was primarily running the Underworld by her lonesome.

Some would think it was the perfect time to settle some scores. She considered it the prime moment to filter out any weasels and traitors and be ridden of their existence. Oswald admitted that they had different management styles, and for the moment, she was using hers.

And he couldn't have wanted her more. Hearing her bark orders through the phone and run his empire from their current base of headquarters was making his insides squirm in the most pleasurable way.

"I'm fine," Sylvia reassured. "No need to worry. The important thing is to _not_ become complacent—I know you know that, I'm just reminding you. One day or later, the student will become the teacher….yeah, and when it happens, _you'll_ be thanking me."

Oswald watched her pull the baked potatoes out of the oven and place the steak and green beans on three plates, folding the third with translucent foil for Ed whenever the man came back from working the late shift. Sylvia switched the phone from her right shoulder to the left, and placed the platter in the refrigerator.

"Yeah, I heard about Galavan," said Sylvia coolly. "I'm going to his trial tomorrow. If everything goes according to plan, he'll be going to prison for the next decade. By then, there's nothing left for him….I don't think so. Mayor James is testifying and from the sound of it, they're ready to put him in the can….We'll see."

Oswald stood from the table where he'd been sitting and took the liberty of standing in the kitchen with her. Sylvia glanced at him in acknowledgment with a small smile before she turned her attention to Mr. Bell once more.

"I'll meet with the Drays come next week," said Sylvia, rolling her eyes. "The Andersons too. Just….No, tell the head of the Families that I'll meet with them when I do. If they have a problem with that, they can come to _me_. Fine then. Fine...I'll talk to you later. You too."

She hung up the phone and took a long inhale before sighing deeply, looking tiredly at Oswald.

"Should I be concerned?" Oswald asked.

"Not the slightest," Sylvia answered dutifully.

She started to move about again but he took her wrist and pulled her back to him. Sylvia sent him a reproachful glance, saw his serious expression, and submitted to standing in front of him.

"You are exhausted." Oswald observed.

"I have a new appreciation for you," Sylvia said lightly. "No one knows how hard it is to keep an empire running."

"Is that all?" He asked knowingly.

She, on the other hand, appeared puzzled; she furrowed her eyebrows, and said slowly, "What do you mean 'is that all'?"

"Pigeon."

"What?" Sylvia said defensively. "I'm just tired."

"I heard your voice break when you mentioned Tiffany."

"So?"

"So..." Oswald emphasized, "You've been ignoring the facts."

"The facts?" Sylvia said skeptically. "Tiffany died. They _all_ did. What's left of our people is what's keeping the empire from completely falling apart. Dagger, Chilly, Mr. Bell, even Gabe….I'm operating on minimum capacity."

"I'm not talking about the empire." Oswald said dismissively.

"Then I'm lost. What _are_ we talking about?"

"You." He said, gesturing to her.

" _I'm_ ship-shape."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying."

"You are," Oswald said coolly. "If there's anything I know best is a liar. And, you're forgetting," (he caressed her chin with his thumb and index finger, forcing her to meet his eyes) "I _know_ you."

"I'm not in the mood to talk about this right now," Sylvia admitted quietly. "I'm not ready to talk about what happened. The people we've lost, Oz—I don't want to talk about that. I'm not ready. And I probably won't be until Galavan is put behind bars."

Oswald frowned: "You think it wasn't hard for me to talk about my mother?"

"You talked about her with Ed. You came to terms with it because he gave you a reality check," Sylvia said lightly.

"Then it's time for _you_ to talk," Oswald offered.

"I don't want to talk."

"I'm not giving you a choice."

"You want to talk about grief, fine by me. I'm still grieving. I'm still hurting. I watched my kids get slaughtered by my brother's people and just thinking about that night hurts me more than I care to admit." Sylvia said snidely.

"You need to heal, Pigeon."

"I don't want to heal!" Sylvia snapped abruptly.

Oswald lowered his hands from her, knowing better than to antagonize.

"I can't afford to," Sylvia uttered shakily. "I know you're alive and well, and no one is more grateful than me but—for the moment—I am trying to keep the empire from falling apart, _including_ myself. Healing involves forgiveness and I can't forgive myself for what I allowed to let happen. I encouraged them to go to the gala. I _didn't_ protect them like I said I would—like I _should_ have. And it's because of me, they're dead. It's because of me, we don't have _anyone_ right now that I can depend on to keep the Underworld from falling into the hands of people that will destroy everything we've built together!"

She shook. From head to toe, her body trembled. She was holding it together...somehow. And Oswald wasn't blind to it. Seeing her so vulnerable, so fragile shook him too. And all he wanted to do was hold her and tell her that everything would be back to normal soon.

He took her hand in his; and she didn't fight him. Not the slightest bit of resistance.

She said quietly, "I lost her too."

Oswald nodded in understanding. He pulled her to him. And she allowed him to. Her head snuggled in the crook of his neck, and his arms wrapped around her back, pressing her closer to him. Sylvia's arms wrapped around his waist and for a moment, they stood in the kitchen. Just holding each other.

He heard her sniffle.

She held it together when they were going after the Mayor. She'd held her own when Oswald had been shot and she cared for him with little complaint, and she'd hardly spoken a word of that night—at least not to him. And now, she seemed to allow herself to come completely undone. To show him that despite the tough shield she'd kept up in order to operate like the strong leader she was, behind that barrier, Sylvia was hurting.

Even Oswald would forget that she was not a superhuman. She was still a woman who could feel pain and grief. A young woman who'd lost the closest thing to a mother she'd had in years.

"It's okay," Oswald whispered softly to her, rubbing her back.

They stayed like that for a minute. After a moment, she'd pulled herself together and looked up at him. Fresh tears were drying on her cheeks, but she never looked more beautiful.

"I love you." Sylvia uttered, smiling a little.

"As I love you," Oswald returned.

Sylvia lifted her head and briefly kissed him. First along his jaw, then his lips. Oswald returned it. And for a second, they considered just how much the other meant to them. Soft kisses became more insistent. It had been weeks since the last time they made love—and this thought seemed to occur to them simultaneously.

Her back was against the counter, and he kept her there, his palms on the surface on either side of her, keeping her pinned.

Kissing first was a tender gesture, and now had become something more of a necessity. Sylvia parted her lips for invitation and Oswald seized it at the first opportunity.

Under his robe, he wore pajama bottoms—and the bandages over his chest and shoulder from when he'd been shot. Sylvia murmured a sound of resistance as Oswald pushed his body against her silky shorts.

"What?" Oswald asked.

"Your shoulder." Sylvia reminded.

"My dear, that's the _least_ of my concerns right now," Oswald told her impatiently.

"But—"

He entangled his hands behind her hair, into the loose bun and pulled out the scrunchie easily so her hair fell down to her shoulders—and he pulled her hair so her head tilted back (she let out a small gasp), granting him open access to her neck, planting pecks along the column of her throat. All the while the bulge in his pajama bottoms slowly grinding between her legs.

The friction was doing things to her.

"Oswald, you're _injured_. You have to recover." Sylvia mumbled, trying her best to ignore the pleas from her own body as her hips met his with every slow grind.

"Injuries never stopped me from getting what I want," Oswald reminded her.

"You could re-open stitches," she warned.

"I don't care."

"Well, _I_ do."

She pushed him away, and Oswald looked at her as though this was honestly the biggest mistake she could have made. Sylvia seemed to gather this too quickly as she stepped back, a hand out in front of her.

"Once you've healed, _then_ we can fool around." Sylvia told him sternly.

She saw him. Knew he was definitely 'all better' (as Ed put it) for she saw that glint in his eye. His lust for her. How he'd _craved_ her. The dreams he had of her when he was alone in bed—they'd all come back in a swoop of desire.

"You know I won't stop until I get what I want," Oswald said calmly, but that commanding edge was there for her to hear.

"One of your most attractive traits," Sylvia assured, smirking at him as she quickly placed the counter top between them. "But your determination will become a hindrance if we do this. You'll only get hurt."

"Is that a threat?"

"A promise," Sylvia said, a twinkle of mischief returning to her eyes. "And you and I _both know_ I'm pretty capable of outrunning you."

Oswald leaned forward on the counter top, hands on the surface—he looked like an overlord debating whether to cast out the rebellious rabble or to accept a treaty based on compromise and mercy. His authoritative stance made Sylvia's knees weak, and her heart to race.

"Believe me," Sylvia said, licking her lips. "I want you. I can't lie about that. But you need to _heal_ and you can't do that if we—Oswald, don't you dare—"

He moved around the table and she'd forgotten how quick he was—with or without the limp. She made a jump from the kitchen to the live-in dining area and then jumped over the couch; he caught her leg just as she'd leapt over the back and she collided onto the floor.

With her newfound disorientation, Oswald pulled her to him by her ankle.

She let out a grunt of effort before she was forced on her back and he straddled her waist and she looked up at him. A startled moment passed before she let out a laugh.

"What the fuck, Oz." Sylvia giggled breathlessly, seeing that he mirrored her.

"You're out of shape, Pigeon." Oswald teased, smirking at her.

"You're out of your depth."

"I'm not the one lying on my back," Oswald reminded.

"Well not to prod your fancy, but between the two of us, who's _really_ at a disadvantage?"

Her taunt made the hairs on Oswald's neck stand on end and he couldn't deny the accuracy in it. His erection was just aching to break free from his pajama bottoms; he'd never been more sex-crazed before this moment. Sylvia was pinned on her back, but he was the one who wanted sex more than anything.

So who was the true victor at this point?

"I may be at a disadvantage," said Oswald huskily, "but I can even the playing field. Easily."

"Yeah right," Sylvia mocked. "You can't force me to have sex with you. And we both know you _do_ need to recover if you want to get your empire back to its original condition."

"I'm not concerned with that right now," Oswald dismissed.

"Oh I know," Sylvia replied. "Your concern is buried against my inner thigh right now."

"I'd rather be buried in another part of you."

"Stop it, Oswald." Sylvia chastised, trying to wiggle out from beneath him. "You know what that kind of talk will get you."

"It'll get me what I want." Oswald said smugly.

"Shut up." Sylvia said, rolling her eyes.

She was denying it. But, oh, he _knew_ just what he could do to her just with his words.

She used her hands to push herself, to get out from underneath him but he grabbed and forced them above her head.

"You know I don't want to hurt you," Sylvia said cautiously. "But I _will._ "

Oswald smirked, saying, "I'd be a liar if I said I didn't want to see you try."

"Oswald, I'm warning you."

He silenced her, shoving his mouth against hers. She instinctively responded, her body betraying her words. With one hand holding her wrists together above her head, Oswald used the other hand to reach between them and push her legs apart so he nestled between them.

Not that she didn't try to use her legs to shove him away. She'd lifted her hips in an attempt to buck him off. But by attempting to do so, she'd rubbed against his full erection and let out an involuntary moan.

"You want it too," Oswald voiced her quaking desires. "We want the same thing."

"No—I _want_ you to recover." Sylvia denied.

"That's not all you want."

He thrusted his hips into hers, rubbing his hard-on into the heat between her legs.

"Oswald, stop." She whimpered.

He kissed her harder, unable to stop himself from moaning into her mouth. Keeping her hands pinned above her while slipping his free hand underneath her shirt, groping her supple breasts. She let out a needy moan when he rolled her left nipple between his fingers and her hips lifted, her back arched.

"You know I always get what I want," Oswald uttered between kisses. "And I want _you_."

"Fuck….." She moaned. "Fuck you."

"That's what I had in mind, Pet." Oswald snickered.

"Stop talking."

"I told you I'd even the playing field."

"You're cheating," Sylvia chastised. "You know what dirty talk does to me."

He said smugly, "I do know. And it's working."

"Stop, Oz."

He felt her body push against his, but not out of resistance. Out of need. Out of want. Her hips rolled into his, partaking in the dry humping he had only started a few minutes ago and now she was a part of it.

Oswald had let go of her hands before this, and they were still above her head—but not by his restraint. By hers.

With both hands now free, he felt every part of her body he could: her back, and stomach, and he felt her breasts through her shirt, feeling the peak of her hardened nipples through the silk cloth.

Her legs lifted around his waist.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No..."

Oswald smirked, saying, "You _don't?"_

"No." Sylvia moaned. "Don't stop."

"That's what I thought."

They kissed passionately and he ignored the pain in his shoulder. Sylvia let out a whine.

"I need you," Sylvia pleaded.

Oswald kissed her briefly on the cheek saying, "Get on the bed, Pet."

Sylvia nodded vigorously; he let her up and watched her move quickly to Ed's bedpost. She eagerly shredded her clothes to the floor, sitting on the bed with her heels digging into the mattress, completely stripped. Oswald got to his feet and moved towards her, grinning smugly when she quickly met him at the foot of the bed.

"Now I want you to beg." Oswald told her softly, tilting her head up with the heel of his palm, his fingers elongated, running parallel with soft column of her throat; her eyes meeting his with the most doe-eyed look he'd ever seen.

"Please," She whispered.

"I know you can do better than that." He condescended.

"Please, _please…_ please fuck me," Sylvia pleaded, her voice almost casting a high-pitch. She reached for him, her fingers tugging at the waistband of his pajamas. "I want you—I need you inside me. Please, baby. I'll do anything."

"I know you will," Oswald reassured softly, his hands meeting hers. With his palms over the back of her hands, he guided them hands down, his pajamas following suit.

His erection caught her eye and without hesitation, she took him in her mouth, all at once. Oswald groaned, out of surprise but also out of restraint—he could have come right then, just seeing how eager she was, and her tongue and lips surrounded him.

Her hunger was clear in every aspect: her nipples were hard, and the evidence of her excitement was wet against her inner thighs. Her hands moved to his ass, grabbing him in each of her palms, pulling him even closer to her so he was balls-deep in her throat.

"Fucking hell…." Oswald exhaled.

He grabbed her hair and pulled her back. She let him go, and licked the drool from her lips, smirking up at him.

"It's been so long, I've forgotten how enthusiastic you are," Oswald panted.

Sylvia beamed at him before taking his hand and pulling him onto the bed with her. He nearly collided with her before he braced his weight, slipping between her legs, putting Sylvia on her back again. He straightened to take off the robe, casting it to the side without seeing where it fell.

"Never forget how much I love you," Oswald told her.

"And I, you." Sylvia returned, grinning widely at him.

He nudged his cockhead between the slick folds of her cunt and entered her slowly, so she could feel every inch of him. It seemed to take forever but it only lasted a few seconds as her muscles clenched and contracted around him, adjusting. She was so wet, so _warm._

For a moment, he'd dropped his guard.

In that moment, Sylvia turned them so she was on top.

"From this position, you won't injure yourself any further," Sylvia noted, smirking at him. "Plus, I like seeing you look up at me from your back."

"It's that kind of talk that will get you in trouble."

Sylvia placed her entire weight on him, sinking onto his cock so the very tip of him rubbed against her g-spot. They both let out a satisfied moan. She pushed the hair from his forehead off his face and kissed his bottom lip; he quickly returned it.

She slowly rode him, and when neither of them could take the agonizing slow pace, she rode him harder. She milked his cock for all he could take, getting closer to the edge and nearly falling over the cliff. After she came, Sylvia rode him harder, riding out her own orgasm to get him where he needed to be.

His fingertips dug into her hips, and she knew there'd be bruises but ignored them all the same. His orgasm came in hot spurts inside her cunt, and it pushed her into a second one, her body trembling thereafter. Her body sank onto his; their soft, quick pants the only sound in the room.

Until that damn cuckoo clock went off again at the stroke of the 15th hour.

Three o'clock in the afternoon.

In another two hours, Ed would be coming home from work.

The sound of the clock startled both of them and when they realized just how hyper vigilant they were, Oswald and Sylvia both laughed.

They would have to be on high alert after. But for now, Sylvia and Oswald just held each other. Whatever came after, they'd meet it head on. Come hell or high water, they were in this together. And they'd be together until kingdom come.


	46. Bitch Is The Word

Chapter Forty-Six: Bitch Is The Word

* * *

Sylvia and Oswald were tangled together under the covers when Ed came home. To his relief, they were both wearing their pajamas, although he had to admit he'd never seen either of them so peaceful looking. So content. Oswald was lying on his back, as he needed to be due to his gunshot wound—although he'd been making excellent progress towards recovery; Sylvia's hand rested on his chest, her head settled in the crook of his neck. Both of them breathed easily.

Ed approached the edge of the bed, lifting the covers so they covered Sylvia completely, hand and all, and tucked them just beneath her head.

He mentally slapped himself as he walked into the kitchen, quietly making a pot of tea. The tea kettle made the shortest whistle before he quickly picked it up so as not to wake the married couple.

 _Married, indeed_. Ed had to remind himself of that. His feelings for Sylvia weren't lessening. He'd touched her face, for crying out loud. Yes, to point out that she was, indeed, injured and she would need a few stitches, but he ultimately had the urge to touch her. Any part of her. All the time.

"Ed—"

" _Oh my go_ —" Ed jumped half a foot from the ground when he felt a hand on his shoulder and Sylvia's voice directly behind him.

Seeing him jump, Sylvia's eyebrows raised in surprise and she even gasped with a start at his sudden reaction. Seeing her, Ed put a hand to his chest, over where his heart was racing and leaned back against the counter, chuckling in relief.

"You scared the hell out of me," Ed said, looking at her.

"Sorry," Sylvia apologized. She gestured to the stove, saying, "I heard the kettle."

"I didn't think I'd wake you…."

"I'm not normally a light sleeper. Recently, I have been. But don't worry. How was work?" Sylvia asked, leaning back against the sink.

Ed glanced her up and down, a brief overview. She wore her lavender tank top and shorts, and she'd tied a deep ocean blue robe off at the waist. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows; her hair, a tangled mess. Ed cleared his throat—if not just to clear the silence that loomed between them, but to step a pace away from her and to focus on the task at hand: Preparing tea.

"Busy," Ed answered.

"How busy?"

"Very."

"Curt answers aren't your forte, Edward," Sylvia sighed as she watched him pour a cup.

He held up the kettle, silently offering.

She said, "Sure, I'll have a glass."

"Sugar?"

"Yes. Thank you."

He added two spoonfuls of sugar into her cup, stirred it, and handed it to her, taking care not to touch her hands with his. Sylvia watched him with amusement, eyes narrowed in observation as he made sure to put the same amount of distance between them.

"You're acting different," Sylvia noted.

"How so?"

"Like more than usual. Wanna talk about it?"

"Not with you."

"Well then, you could try discussing that issue with the other 'you'." Sylvia humored. "Perhaps he can provide some insight."

"He's been of no help."

"I'm not surprised."

"Meaning?" Ed chirped, looking at her suspiciously.

Sylvia exhaled, putting the cup aside.

"You're not fooling me, Ed. I've listened to you. I've heard you talk to yourself when you think no one is listening. And I know that you are _constantly_ arguing with your inner monologue."

"Do you?"

"Don't insult me." Sylvia warned calmly.

"I'm not insulting you."

"Oh, really? You're pretending that I don't know you from before _this_ ," Sylvia said, emphasizing her point by gesticulating to his general murderous existence as well as the fact that he was harboring a fugitive from the law within his own apartment, and said fugitive was sleeping in his bed.

Sylvia took a step towards him. He stepped back.

"Your feelings for me are getting stronger, aren't they?" Sylvia asked knowingly.

"You have no idea." Ed admitted; he pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose, and mentally conked himself in the head for even confessing it.

"Do you want to talk about _that_ then?" She asked.

"What good is talking about it if it can't happen?"

"What good is it _not_ talking about it and letting it fester into something that could destroy our friendship?" Sylvia asked. "I want nothing more than to be a friend to you—you're probably my only friend that I can truly rely on. I'd hate for that to extinguish due to bottled emotions. And if you refuse to seek consolation from your other 'you' then maybe I'm your only other option."

"You propose an interesting point."

"Don't sound so surprised; I tend to do that," Sylvia said, smirking at him. "You're not the only one with an inflated ego, you know."

Ed smiled at her teasing before he sighed with resignation, "So what do you suggest we do?"

"Get everything out in the open," Sylvia offered, clicking her fingernails on the counter. "Put all the cards on the table."

Ed nervously fiddled with his glasses, adjusting them, re-adjusting them, taking them off to clean them until finally Sylvia approached him in one liquid movement, and took his glasses off his face, placing them neatly on the counter behind him.

It was silent, but she'd nonverbally told him to stop what he was doing, stop distracting himself from the current situation, and pay attention to what was at stake.

"So you want me," Sylvia uttered quietly.

"Yes."

"Emotionally?"

"Yes."

"Sexually?"

" _Yes_ ," Ed said more firmly. "In every…." (he felt his voice hitch in his throat) "...In _every_ way."

"And if what if I did not want the same from you?" Sylvia asked, her voice was soft...an audible sound with a visual image of velvet on leather.

"I'd recant."

She eyed him, not out of any suspicion but out of amusement. Trying to measure him up, size up his declaration. Ed kept his hands beside him, on the counter. But there was no denying that he wanted more than anything than to swoop her in his arms and take her over the nearest surface. No hesitation, no refusal. Just plain, animalistic sex.

"For your awareness, I'll admit that I _have_ thought about it," Sylvia said softly, crossing her arms over her chest...guarding herself.

Ed blinked: "You have?"

"Of course, I have," she said. "We have a few things in common, you know: a flare for riddles, intelligence, that sort of thing. And you get my quirky sense of humor."

Ed smiled, unabashed as he added, "I like your sense of humor."

"I know you do."

"And?"

"Well, that's where it stops," Sylvia said gently. "I like you, Ed. A _great_ deal. But..." She glanced wistfully at the bed where her lover slept. "I love Oswald."

Ed gulped. She could hear him swallow his nerves. At that moment, Oswald mumbled in his sleep, turning in his covers. It was as though that ended the odd hypnotic hold Sylvia had on him. Ed picked up his glasses, cleaned them on his shirt then placed them on the bridge of his nose, looking at her through them but not completely seeing her.

"Unrequited love is the hardest to swallow," Ed said quietly.

"I love you as a friend," she offered. "That's all I _can_ offer to you. And all that I would. If you'd not have me as a lover, would you still have me as your friend?"

"I suppose…." Ed muttered. "I suppose I should have seen this coming. I shouldn't have expected any other result."

"You can understand where I'm coming from, can't you?" Sylvia asked.

"I can." Ed said, nodding.

"Are we still friends?"

"Of course."

A moment of awkward silence appeared.

Ed cleared his throat, saying, "You're going to Galavan's trial tomorrow?"

"I am."

"What about your club?"

"It'll keep itself."

"Do you need help running it?"

"No—my people tend to keep close watch on my assets," Sylvia answered calmly.

The discussion from before seemed to die away to Ed's relief and he offered the kettle to her once more.

"No thanks….I've had plenty of tea," Sylvia said, smiling gratefully. "I think I might actually go to my brother's."

Ed chuckled, "He lives in his own place?"

"He mostly lives with Lee—same deal, I suppose. I've not heard from him a couple days, so I figured I might as well pop by."

"Your brother is very lucky to have you for a sister."

Sylvia looked at Ed with a cock of her head, but she smiled and said, "You know, I've been thinking the very same thing."

"Are you leaving now?"

"I've gotta change first. After that, I'll be heading out."

"It's late."

"I can't sleep anyway," said Sylvia, shrugging carelessly.

"Neither can I. You've left me with plenty to think about," Ed said, looking at his cup of tea.

Sylvia heard the tone in his voice shift from concern to that of passive resentment. Ed had heard it himself, but he hoped she would carry on, not say a word about it—he'd hoped she'd not even heard it to begin with but he couldn't be so lucky. And he should have known better: Sylvia wasn't the type to 'talk about it later'.

She put a hand on his wrist, and he glanced at it before lifting his eyes to meet hers.

She appeared so sincere.

"If circumstances were different, Ed, we might have been something more," said Sylvia. "If this is going to complicate our friendship, perhaps we should consider the alternative."

Ed glanced down at her hand on his wrist and for a moment, he considered breaking things off with her. However, she was a breath of fresh air to the people he worked with and not having her in his life would be more painful.

"I would not have it any other way," Ed said lightly, touching the back of her hand.

"I'm glad to hear it." Sylvia said, smiling at him.

Sylvia left to the bathroom and she came back out in ten minutes wearing black leggings and a blood-red long-sleeve shirt. She wore black, laced up boots. She gathered her purse and phone and then placed a handgun inside the purse, exchanging a knowing look with Ed.

She stopped by the bed, leaning over to kiss Oswald's forehead.

"Sylvia….?"

"Yes, it's me, sweetheart," Sylvia reassured.

"Where are you going?" Oswald asked groggily.

"I'm going out for a sec. I'm going to make sure my brother is okay….get some fresh air, that sort of thing."

"Be careful."

"I will."

"I love you."

"As I love you," Sylvia returned, kissing him.

He turned on his side and fell back to sleep.

Sylvia started to the door, waving at Ed.

"Be careful." He said.

"Always."

He watched her leave.

* * *

Sylvia drove to Lee's house. She didn't have to call ahead of time; she knew that Jim would be there. He hardly lived at his place anymore; in fact, she wondered if he even owned an apartment. She pulled up to the sidewalk, parked the car, and glanced up at the sky—dark and gray as ever—seeing that it was raining.

It _always_ rained in Gotham.

She stopped at the front door, pressing the button at the entry point. It buzzed, and Lee's voice came from the speaker.

"Who is it?"

"It's me," Sylvia answered.

A moment passed. That was probably a minute where Lee was telling Jim that his sister had arrived at nighttime, unannounced. In record time, Jim's voice came from the speaker.

"Vee, are you alright?"

"Right as rain," said Sylvia, not hiding the sarcasm from her voice. "I need to talk to you."

"About?"

"The weather."

"How about without the sarcasm?"

"The trial," Sylvia answered seriously. "The one tomorrow."

"Right," Jim sighed (she could practically _hear_ him rolling his eyes). "Come in."

Sylvia opened the front entrance, walking through the door. She walked into the kitchen to see Lee who was standing in her red wine-colored robe and Jim, who was dressed in his best uniform, looking like he had been rained on.

"When did you put in that new security system?" She asked, gesturing to the door. "I thought those things only existed in apartment buildings and condos."

"It was recently installed," Lee quipped, looking more or less annoyed.

Sensing the tension, Sylvia glanced at Jim.

"Forget your umbrella?" She humored.

"Don't even start," Jim grumbled.

He glanced at Lee, who smiled at Sylvia politely but she didn't say anything else. Instead, she turned on her heel, walked straight into the bedroom, and then closed the door without another word.

Sylvia glanced after her:"Wow, you couldn't cut the tension in here with a fucking _chainsaw_."

"We had something of a disagreement," Jim muttered, walking back into the kitchen.

He sat at the counter where a couple stools were presentably comfortable, even offering her a cup of Jack Daniels. She politely declined. She stood opposite of him, and he drained half his glass without pause. The ice cubes had barely melted as he poured himself a second one.

"What has _you_ frazzled?" Sylvia asked.

"Remember Parks?"

"Yeah, Rookie-Officer-Good-Ole-Katherine Par—"

"She died."

Sylvia blinked, and retracted her humorous limerick in exchange for a somber expression. Sensing that Jim would speak more to the fact, she remained silent, watching him take a sip of the new glass.

"She was twenty-three," said Jim, disgruntled. "Just out of the academy. And we buried her. This morning."

"She was part of the Strike Force."

"Yeah."

"And she died. How?"

"That cannibal psychopath," said Jim, gritting his teeth. "The one we put away…He killed her. At the station. We didn't even get the chance to put him behind bars."

"But he had no weapons on him. _I_ searched him myself."

"He bit her neck," said Jim. "Like a goddamn vampire."

Sylvia interlaced her fingers together saying, "Are you blaming me for that?"

"No."

"So you're blaming yourself."

"I had the chance to kill him."

"And you didn't."

Jim said resentfully, "You convinced me not to."

"So you _are_ blaming me," Sylvia responded coolly.

"I'm not."

"You just said that I convinced you to spare him." Sylvia reminded. "And I hear the blame in your voice. You can't get rid of that."

"A perp—a psychopath—murders four cops and I have the chance to do something and I don't. What does that make me?"

Sylvia shrugged, saying, "Perhaps I'm not the one to discuss this with, Jimmy."

"Maybe you are."

"Lee is probably better."

"We've talked."

"And argued?" Sylvia predicted. "Is that why she barely looked at me before closing herself in the bedroom."

"We disagreed." Jim said.

"About?"

"Killing him, the psychopath," Jim answered. "I had the chance. I had my gun right where I wanted. In his mouth. And I don't pull the trigger."

"Because you're better than that."

"Am I?" Jim growled, glaring at her. "I wanted to kill him."

"Why didn't you?"

"You convinced me not to," Jim snapped.

"Ergo, you're blaming me!" Sylvia snapped back. "Goddamn, James— _You're_ the one that was telling me that I couldn't kill the fucker, because we had to find out who put the hit on you in the first place. I was more than ready to lay waste to the guy. Not because he killed your cop friends, but because he was threatening _you_. But no—you told me to spare his life. As it turns out, I had to tell _you_ to follow your own goddamn rules."

"That's not the point."

"You're right. A fucking psycho kills your cops, kills your rookie, and you're blaming yourself for not taking the guy out when you had the chance," Sylvia said, leaning forward. "You're remorseful, you have compassion. That's normal, James. And you want vengeance."

"I want justice."

" _Vengeance_ ," Sylvia corrected. "Your sense of justice—in this context, at least—is nothing less than vengeance. You want retribution for what he's done, you want to see him rot in hell."

"That's not the point."

"No, Jim—that _is_ the point," Sylvia said, smacking the table with her palm. "But you're better than that. I'd have rather killed the son of a bitch myself than see you bend your own fucking rules for a man who doesn't deserve that honor."

"I wouldn't have let you do it."

"You wouldn't have been given a choice. If I wanted him dead, I'd have severed his head."

"I didn't kill him."

"He was your prisoner—you couldn't. He was your responsibility."

"The cops that died tonight died because of me."

"You didn't kill them!"

"But the gunman was coming after _me_."

Sylvia let out a harsh exasperated exhale before saying coldly, "You feel guilty, fine. You want 'justice', fine by me. But don't feel like you could have done more. You can't always be the hero, Jim. You can save this person, and that, you can save your boss, and your family, but what you _can't_ do is _save_ _ **everyone**_. It's humanly impossible!"

Jim ignored that, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes and he added, "Galavan is behind it."

"Galavan is behind a _lot_ of things."

"He's responsible. He might as well killed Essen, Parks—"

"He's going to _jail_ ," Sylvia reminded. "He's serving his sentence."

"I visited him today."

Sylvia blinked, saying, "Did you?"

"Yes."

"How'd that go? Did you turn off the cameras, beat him within an inch of his life?"

"No." Jim said, shaking his head. "I'm better than that."

"Yes, you are. But I'm not. Should have taken me with you. I'd have taught the bastard a thing or two about pain," said Sylvia darkly. "I'd ruin him before any of those prisoners in Black Gate even had the chance to pop his ass cherry."

"That's disturbing."

"But you're not _disagreeing_ with me," said Sylvia, smirking at him. She clicked her tongue: "Why'd you visit him?"

"To see…." Jim began. He paused before saying, "I'm not even sure."

"How did he look?"

"I've seen him look worse."

"Did he look like a skeleton?"

"No."

"Maybe like a ghoul?" Sylvia asked. "You know, if you had asked, the guards would have gladly given you free reign of those cameras. Make it look like a systemic malfunction."

Jim suddenly sprang to his feet saying, "He doesn't look like a man who's about to serve a decade in prison."

Sylvia blinked again, saying, "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

" _Yes_."

"He just had this look on his face."

"He's a man in jail, with no friends," said Sylvia. "He's going to rot in prison and all of us will sleep better because of it."

"A man who has nothing to lose does not look like the way Galavan looked today," said Jim. "I have a bad feeling."

"I thought that was from Parks dying on you."

"A different feeling."

"So you had some bad Mexican food—"

" _Sylvia!_ "

"Alright! **Damn**. Forgive me for trying to lighten the mood!" Sylvia snapped, glaring daggers back at him. "Were you this hostile towards Lee? No wonder she looked punitive."

Jim sat back down, shaking his head.

"I have a bad feeling," he said. "Something bad is going to happen."

"Well, James. He's a bad man. Sometimes, bad things happen to bad people. And he's done _plenty_ of bad things. For instance: he killed my mother-in-law."

"Not to point out the obvious, but no one has found her body."

"I don't need a fucking body to prove it!" Sylvia snapped. "I _saw_ her die. In my husband's arms. That should be fucking enough for you to believe it."

"A jury won't believe it."

"She's not on a fucking _cruise_ ," Sylvia retorted, slamming her hand on the table. "She's dead, probably lying on the ground, giving some fucking maggots and cockroaches a feast of their lives and you're telling me you don't—"

"I believe you."

"Then fucking _act_ like it!" Sylvia snarled.

Jim looked intimidated for a brief second before he said calmly, "I need proof."

"Proof? I can lead you back to where I last saw her."

Jim glanced up at her, thinking he might have misheard her.

"A warehouse," said Sylvia. "By the port. I can lead you there, show you where Galavan had her locked up for days, where they tortured her. Galavan and his sister both. Galavan is a bad man, James—you _know_ he killed Gertrud, he didn't deny it. You put him away, he'll rot in Black Gate. Even better: Mayor James is going to testify to kidnapping and torture, and that'll keep him in there for at _least_ ten years."

"I saw him," said Jim, like he was chanting a mantra. "He knows something."

"He knows he's a prick."

"I'm serious, Vee."

"I am too," Sylvia reassured. "You shouldn't worry."

A charged moment between them settled, the dust clearing from the fight. Jim looked tiredly at Sylvia.

"Any word on Penguin?" He asked.

"If I knew, do you think I'd tell you?"

"Probably not."

She clapped him on the back, saying, "Good man. How's Barnes?"

"Alive and kicking."

"How's the leg?"

"Injured."

"The doctor didn't keep him in the hospital?"

"Who cares what the doctor said," said Jim, rolling his eyes.

"Can't keep a good dog down," Sylvia chuckled.

"Not Barnes."

"How's Harvey?"

"Also fine." Jim said, nodding. He looked at her: "Do you really not know where your husband is?"

"I don't know where he is." She said flatly.

"You're lying to me."

"You can read me like a book. If you want to find your brother-in-law, you gotta go somewhere else. Not me, buddy."

"You can be a real bitch, you know that?"

Sylvia grinned, saying, "I'm glad someone finally said that instead of just calling me 'insufferable'. So, are you going to the trial?"

"Yes. Are you?"

"Planned on it."

"I don't think you should," Jim said carefully, lifting his head to look at her.

"This is probably going to be the only moment of exoneration I get, and you want me to to skip it? Why?"

"I don't know," said Jim quietly. "I just have a feeling."

"Oi, with your feelings already."

"I mean it. And I'm serious."

"When are you not?" Sylvia teased.

Jim gave her a look, and she held up her hands in surrender. He took another drink from his glass.

"Why are you even here?" asked Jim.

"To talk."

"Why tonight? It's...god, it's eleven o'clock at night."

"I couldn't sleep. And I needed the fresh air." Sylvia said.

"How's the club business?"

"Fairing."

"I'm sorry for what happened to your employees," said Jim softly.

She felt a sudden pang in her chest. Since she hadn't had any Mexican food, she was certain that was a small spark of love and feeling for her brother's sincerity.

"Me too."

"Will there be a funeral?"

"People don't have funerals for people like us," Sylvia said despondently. "But thanks for asking. And thanks for the apology."

"When's Gertrud's funeral?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I've considered paying my respects," said Jim lightly. "For the few minutes I've interacted with her, she seemed like a kind-hearted woman."

"She is…. _was_." Sylvia said quickly. She smiled sadly, saying, "I miss her."

Jim slowly stood. Sylvia stared at him suspiciously as he rounded the counter and she flinched when he hugged her. Then she hugged him back.

"I'm sorry. I really am." Jim said.

"I am too."

"I don't think you should go to the trial."

"I don't think we should be hugging this long."

"I think you're right," said Jim.

They quickly separated and laughed away the silliness.

"What's on your agenda for the rest of the night?" Sylvia asked.

"Drinking."

"Now you're sounding a little more like Bullock. Maybe a little make-up sex between you and Lee?"

"Doubt it."

"If you initiate it, she might take your offer," Sylvia said slyly.

"I don't think—"

"Just fuck her tonight," Sylvia said, taking her purse and placing the strap over her shoulder.

"How crude."

"But true," she said with a small smile. "If I were in her shoes, I'd want the same thing."

"That sounds just—that's disturbing."

"I know. I didn't think about how that would sound until I said it."

"Well, Vee. I think this is a great stopping point."

"Yeah, good talk," said Sylvia, waving. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Stay safe."

"You too!"


	47. Galavan's Let Go

Chapter Forty-Seven: Galavan's Let Go

* * *

"When's the shipment coming in?" Sylvia asked.

Dagger answered her, "Possibly tonight, or tomorrow."

Sylvia rounded the bar, quickly speaking to the bartenders who registered her instructions before she turned to Dagger saying, "When it does, get it to the back; have either Brittany or Delilah stock the refreshments—they know what the Regulars prefer."

"Which one is Brittany?"

"The blonde," Sylvia answered patiently, pointing to the Rapunzel figure that wore her hair down to her waist in long velvet ribbons.

"Delilah hasn't been in."

"She should be working tonight," Sylvia returned carelessly. "She works every other day. When the Drays come in, have _her_ serve them. She knows what they like. Not to mention the heir fancies her. He tips well, but he tips _her_ the best."

"What about the Andersons?" Dagger asked.

"They'll be coming in on the weekend. I'll be here during that time." Sylvia said dismissively. "When they come, just do whatever. I'm not concerned about them; they're easily appeased by any amount of alcohol. The grandfather is visiting from Brussels—he has a reputation for being a sloppy drunk, so make sure you call the cleaning crew the night of."

Dagger said tiredly, "I don't know how you keep up with all of this, Sylvia. Look, maybe you should get Brittany to do this."

"Brittany is beautiful as a bartender, but she's full of hot air," Sylvia admitted, rolling her eyes. "I can't trust her to run the club."

"But you trust _me_?" Dagger said incredulously. "I'm flattered but you've got the wrong man."

"I've got the _right_ man," Sylvia returned, smiling reassuringly. "You don't give yourself enough credit. You're more than a bouncer."

"I don't think so."

"Well, it doesn't matter what you think. You'll still be my main man when I want some skulls cracked, but until I find a successor, I'll need you to keep things in check for me," Sylvia said kindly. "Can I count on you to do that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you," she said sincerely, gently tapping his wrist. "If things get messy, get Chilly to help you out. He's not the smartest crack in the wall, but he's one hell of a bruiser when we need him. If he gives you any shtick, remind him that he still owes me fifty thousand dollars, and that if it wasn't for me, his head would be mounted on Falcone's wall."

"Will do," said Dagger, grinning toothily. "What about the other shipment?"

"The booze comes on schedule—the captains don't work for the dead anymore."

"Meaning Maroni?"

"Exactly. They'll deliver."

"What about the guns?"

"Next Thursday, Dagger. Don't get ahead of yourself," Sylvia said comfortingly.

"What about your meetings?"

"Don't worry about the extra stuff—Mr. Bell will be handling that for me," said Sylvia. "I just need you to make sure the club is taken care of and people aren't robbing us blind."

"Will do."

"Good man."

He grinned at her praise before heading off to catch the bartenders with further instructions. At that moment, Gabe approached and she smiled at him warmly.

"Hiya, Liv."

"Hey, Gabe."

"Business is doing pretty good."

"As always," said Sylvia coyly.

"Anything for me and the boys?"

Sylvia shrugged saying, "Nothing yet. People have been pretty obedient the past few days. Take a load off, and have a drink on me."

"Thanks, Liv!" Gabe said enthusiastically, hugging her tightly.

"Air! Gabe, _air_!"

Gabe quickly let her go, still grinning.

"I've got to go," said Sylvia.

"Where you heading?"

"A trial."

"Galavan's?"

"Who else?"

"Have fun!" said Gabe, waving after her.

Sylvia smiled and headed out the door.

* * *

She arrived at the courthouse, taking a seat beside Captain Barnes who glanced her, slightly affronted; that was until she asked about his leg.

"Doing better every day," said Barnes coolly.

"Glad to hear it," said Sylvia, nodding. "I'm sorry to hear about Parks."

"It happens to the best of us."

"It shouldn't though."

"I couldn't agree more," Barnes grumbled. He glanced sideways at her saying lowly, "Why are you here?"

"I'm here for the same reason you are."

"To see justice being served?"

"Something to that affect," she replied, smirking at him. "Where's Jim?"

"I was going to ask the same thing."

"I've not seen him since last night."

"Well, a lot of stuff happened since last night."

"For example?" Sylvia said curiously.

"It's a need-to-know only basis."

"Typical cop stuff."

"Detective Gordon mentioned you had a topical sense of humor," said Barnes patiently. "But he never mentioned just how cynical you can be."

"I have a dark sense of humor."

"Darker than most cops," Barnes noted.

"Even darker," Sylvia reassured—but that didn't make Barnes feel anymore at ease.

She glanced at the bench where Galavan sat next to his lawyer; on the other bench sat Harvey Dent; beside him, was Mayor James, who looked more nervous than any other moment Sylvia had seen him. Not that she made it her goal to see James on a daily basis.

Barnes looked at Sylvia. She wore a black flannel shirt, boot-cut jeans and black boots. Not the typical court attire.

"Did you just come from work?" Barnes asked.

"Making small talk with a felon, huh?" Sylvia teased.

"Don't humor me."

"Then I won't. To answer your question, Captain Serious, yes. I did." Sylvia said.

"And how is the business?"

"Fair."

"Good to hear."

"You don't have to placate me. I know you detest my business," said Sylvia, grinning broadly at him. "If you ever want a free drink, you're more than welcome."

"Is that so?"

"Cops drink for free." Sylvia told him lightly, crossing a leg over her knee. "Considering this is our first interaction that didn't consist of you holding a gun to my head or any threat for that matter, you'd have learned it before. So I'm telling you now."

"I'm surprised you don't serve poison to your clientele."

"Well, that's never crossed my mind; I've been told that revenge is best served cold." Sylvia said slyly. "But then again, I'm not after _your_ head, am I?"

"Fair point."

"Thought so."

Barnes and Sylvia smiled at each other. It was the first of many interactions, but Sylvia was certain that she was growing on Barnes. Even if he still looked at her like she was an insect that needed to be swatted.

The judge was a stark of a woman, with a tight bun. A severe plait, indeed. Her no-nonsense seemed more than reassuring. Sylvia glanced at the jury—people who were very aware that this entire situation was serious and the tension in the air alone made it hard for anyone to breathe.

Then there was Galavan, dressed up in an Armani suit. Looking Debonair as usual.

Sylvia wanted to cut off his face.

"What's your agenda for coming here, seriously?" Barnes said under his breath.

"Justice." Sylvia humored, smirking at him. "Why else would I come to the trial of a man I absolutely loathe?"

The trial started with the rapping of the judge's gavel. Galavan was questioned by his own attorney, and then Harvey Dent had a crack at him. The jury seemed to see through Galavan's supposed purity, and Sylvia was even convinced that the man facing trial and prison would finally be put away. For good.

As soon as they questioned his whereabouts, the devil announced himself. Jim Gordon slid between the benches and sat between Sylvia and Barnes, only glancing surprisingly between the two since they hadn't mauled each other to death. Sylvia grinned expectantly at Jim, glancing at him when he leaned into Barnes.

"Where the hell have you been?" Barnes demanded.

Jim whispered, "Bullock and I captured one of the monks."

 _Monks?_

Sylvia's interest was already piqued.

"I was right," Jim continued. "They're performing some sort of ritual to cleanse the city of sin. They have one victim left; they're calling him the 'Son of Gotham'."

"That could refer to anyone," Sylvia muttered.

"Shh!" Jim hushed.

"Did you just shush me?" Sylvia hissed.

"Did they say anything about Galavan?" asked Barnes, ignoring Sylvia's retort.

Suddenly the crowd let out a bunch of gasps of surprise and shock. Sylvia glanced up to see Mayor James on the stand, questioned by Harvey Dent, who looked just as taken aback as the rest of the court.

"Order in the court!" The judge hollered, rapping her gavel on the podium. She turned to the former mayor of Gotham saying, "Mr. James. Please repeat what you just said."

"Theo Galavan did not kidnap me," said James more firmly, his eyes settled on his own podium.

More gasps from the gallery. Jim and Sylvia were both in shock; Barnes glanced cautiously at the siblings.

"Your honor!" Harvey Dent quickly objected. "The witness has suffered—"

"Quiet," the Judge hushed sternly. "Please _explain_ yourself, sir. Why did you lie? Who held you captive?"

A pause.

"Oswald Cobblepot, the Penguin," said James.

"Liar!" Sylvia shouted, shooting to her feet.

The gallery glanced at Sylvia, including that of the Judge, James himself, and Galavan at the bench. Harvey Dent turned around, startled, seeing Sylvia there.

"He hates Theo Galavan," James continued (since he was on a roll and it was all about to go downhill anyway). "He tried to kill him multiple times...He told me to what to say—"

"DON'T BELIEVE HIM!" Sylvia shouted.

"He threatened me with terrible things," said James carefully.

"He's lying!" Jim shouted, standing with Sylvia.

At this point, Barnes had to shout for both of them to take a seat, getting up with his cane and walking after Jim, who had begun storming to the front. Sylvia was just behind him.

"Detective Gordon, _silence_!" the Judge ordered, glaring at him. "As for _you_ " (she pointed a bony finger at Sylvia) "Calm yourself."

Galavan's lawyer stood as well, saying, "Your Honor, I move my client be released at once!"

"Your Honor," Harvey Dent argued, "The State requests a recess to further—"

"QUIET!" the Judge said, raising her hands.

Sylvia looked at her desperately. Jim looked just as furious. Barnes was holding onto Jim's arm, keeping him restrained and it was only by Sylvia's anticipation that she hoped her outburst had made a difference. But to no avail.

The Judge looked at the witness.

"Mr. James," she said strictly. "You do realize that you are under oath?"

James looked as though he was remorseful, trying to seek out a silent compassion from—not the gallery—but from Jim and Sylvia as he said, "Oswald Cobblepot tortured me and put my head in a box. He made me lie...I'm so very, very sorry."

"In light of Mr. James' testimony," said the Judge, "and the complete absence of any other evidence provided by the State, I hereby order the release of Theodore Galavan and the case against him dismissed."

"YOUR HONOR!" Jim shouted.

"Jim, stop—there's nothing you can do!" Barnes insisted, grabbing him and pulling him back.

He started to pull away, stepping forth.

"James—Jimmy, _stop_!" Sylvia said quietly, taking Jim's hand and pulling him back as well. She knew what would happen if he antagonized the judge any further and she wasn't anxious to see her brother locked away.

Galavan, smug bastard that he was, said to the judge, "Your Honor. May I say a few words?"

Playing Devil's Advocate, Judge said plainly, "I think that's only fair."

Galavan smiled in appreciation and as he spoke, he approached Jim and Sylvia; the closer he came to them, Jim's arm came up and pushed Sylvia behind him. When it came down to it, Jim knew Galavan had hurt her to a point of unforgivable cause and he refused for Galavan to even _approach_ her now.

"I'd just like to state," Galavan drawled, "I harbor no ill will toward Detective Jim Gordon or the GCPD. They did their jobs. They're still _my_ heroes. What do you say, Detective Gordon? Do you think we can move forward, together, and fix this broken, beautiful city?"

" _Jim_..." Sylvia whispered.

"While you think on that," said Galavan lightly, smiling at Jim then turning to Sylvia. "I'd like to say a few words to the woman who has irrevocably turned my life upside down….in one way or another…."

Sylvia frowned at him.

"Your husband, Oswald Cobblepot, is a mistaken man. I mean," Galavan chortled. "I doubt there's a man who is more un _deserving_ of a beautiful, honorable, and devoted person like you. Morally speaking, I think the court—even the jury—would say that if anyone was more deserving of a doting wife, it would be _me_."

Galavan approached her, standing in front of her, ignoring Jim's protective stare.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is….you fell for a man who not even a mother could love..." Galavan said pitifully.

Well, that just about did it.

Galavan didn't almost finish his sentence before Jim wielded back and punched the fucker in the face.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Jim shouted. "YOU'RE A SON-OF-A-BITCH!"

The press clamored, snapped pictures. Galavan was a drama queen and held his face from where Jim had punched him—not before Jim got another right hook in, putting Galavan on his back.

"GORDON!" Barnes growled.

"SON OF A BITCH! I'M GOING TO GET YOU!"

The bailiff and another officer started pulling him outside.

"I'M GOING TO GET YOU!" Jim bellowed, struggling against them.

"GET HIM OUT OF HERE!" The Judge ordered.

Sylvia watched the bailiff and the officer pull Jim out. She glared at Galavan, who smirked smugly back at her. Fearing that she'd retaliate, the Judge ordered her out as well. An officer approached Sylvia, taking her arm; she pulled back.

"I'll fucking let myself out." Sylvia said harshly.

"Get a move on then."

"Fucking pig." Sylvia hissed, leaving the court room.

She followed where Jim had been escorted out, the single officer tailing her. She glanced outside, and saw Jim had been tased; he was lying on the ground, his body convulsing. It wasn't until she felt the taser herself that she realized that the officers that had escorted Jim and herself out of the courtroom weren't the best—they worked for Galavan.

Her head hit the wet concrete—even before then, she was out cold.


	48. Fortune's Wheel

Chapter Forty-Eight: Fortune's Wheel

* * *

Sylvia felt her wrists being constricted; at first she thought a very strong python had found its way out of a cage and had mistaken her for a tasty morsel. It wasn't until she opened her eyes that she realized her wrists were zip-tied (a little too tightly) to a panel of wood, the appearance similar to that of a rack used in medieval times….except she was able to stand.

She stood parallel with Jim Gordon, who looked to be in the same boat. Except for him to wake up, Galavan punched him square in the face, promptly waking the detective.

"Vee..." Jim mumbled, seeing her.

"Don't sound too relieved." Sylvia muttered resentfully, looking to the front to see Galavan wearing his suit (of course) and a bellowing trench coat.

The air felt less dense, but colder than usual. Maybe it was because the sentence of death was just hanging on their shoulders. It was the only reason she and Jim were hanging like pigs in a slaughterhouse. Sylvia twisted her wrists in an attempt to get free, but the sensation of cutting and burning stopped that action in a heartbeat.

She winced at the feeling. Jim apparently tried the same because he was grimacing too. But maybe not for the same reason. Looking around and behind Galavan, the same officers that had detained Jim and Sylvia alike were standing with their hands on their hips, or arms crossed, a look of smug satisfaction twisting their expressions.

"My, my," drawled Galavan. "What a day can bring. Here, _you're_ the prisoner. And _I'm_ free." He leaned forward tauntingly, adding, "Bet you didn't think that was going to happen, huh?"

He glanced at Sylvia, "Don't worry, dear. I've not forgotten about you."

"Aw, small blessings," she snarled.

"Never a dull moment with you, is there?" Galavan chuckled, crossing his arms with that same smug smile. "Before I speak to your brother and ignore you completely, I'm going to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

"Son of a bitch," Jim growled.

"Shh." Galavan said, putting a finger up in front of Jim who bore his teeth like a dog and glared daggers at him.

"Care to know?" Galavan said smoothly, smiling handsomely.

"Why ask when you already know the answer," Sylvia responded bitterly.

"Because I want to know. I want to hear it from your tongue."

"Fuck you."

"Well," he chuckled, "I'd be a liar to say that I haven't thought about that."

"Fuck your sister then," Sylvia hissed. "I'd assumed you already have."

"By that logic, I could assume you and the detective could have."

The officers behind Galavan chuckled derisively.

"You're a sick fucker," Sylvia snarled.

"Stop talking for _just_ a minute, would you. Let me tell you what I have in mind. If you don't like it, if you disagree, fine," said Galavan. "After all, what else do you have to lose?"

"My fucking common sense," said Sylvia. "And if you had any, you'd fuck off. Now."

"My dear, you're not in any position to be making threats."

"I don't need a fucking gun," Sylvia growled, "to make a threat. _And_ keep it."

Jim glanced at her, a little taken aback. Yes, he'd seen her angry before. He'd seen her fight and even claw a man's eyes out—but seeing her so murderous, so _violent…_.that shook him. Jim wondered if Galavan had any sense himself, seeing as how the man simply grinned back at her like she wasn't threatening his life.

"You're a breath of _fire_ ," Galavan whispered, reaching out to her. "A desert flower…."

Jim struggled forward to make any attempt to shove Galavan away from Sylvia, but it was futile. Still, a burst of pride swelled inside him when Jim saw Sylvia try to take a bite out of Galavan's hand that dared to even attempt to caress her face.

"More like a desert cobra," chuckled Galavan, smirking at her. (The officers laughed at that.) "I can see that you're not going to listen to reason."

"I'll listen to reason."

"Then you'd listen to what I have to say."

"A man like you can't be reasoned with," Sylvia said darkly.

"My dear, there are no men like me."

"If you think so," said Sylvia hatefully. "Look inside a toilet. I shit one out like you every fucking day."

Jim grinned at Sylvia, despite his situation. His sister had a potty mouth—no pun intended—and he normally despised it when she would talk herself into a bad situation. Considering they couldn't be any worse off, Jim had to hand it to her; she could spin a phrase and wipe the smile off Galavan's face: just as she did with her comment.

"So the offer of freeing you, pardoning your husband," said Galavan calmly. "That doesn't appeal to you."

"Whatever you have to offer me, you can put it in a bottle and fuck yourself in the ass with it."

"Colorful."

Sylvia grinned maliciously at him. Galavan glanced at the officer, giving him the gesture—the signal that the officer was waiting for. The latter walked up and gagged Sylvia, putting what appeared to be a sock found in the ditch inside her mouth and before she could spit it out, the officer slapped a long piece of duck tape over her mouth and cheeks.

It kept her from spitting it out—and it silenced her. Two things that Galavan had anticipated after the shit comment.

At this point, Jim had never wanted to hurt the man more.

"Your sister has a colorful vocabulary," Galavan noted.

"I've never been more proud of her," Jim returned, glaring daggers at him too.

"Wheel of fortune," Galavan continued, ignoring him. "It turns and turns, and—fortunately for me—it lands on the best of days."

"These cops," Jim said hoarsely. "They work for you."

He made a mental note to report these men to internal affairs, first chance he had. Assuming that chance was provided. He couldn't see a way out of this situation.

"Good men," Galavan commented. "Good men who can tell which way the wind is blowing. Now we have a very small window; I have places to be, you two have to die, but…I think I know you all too well by now, detective, and I know you" (he wiggled his finger at him) "have questions and want answers."

On cue and at the opportunity, Jim questioned, "The monks. Do they work for you too?"

"For centuries," Galavan drawled. "The Order of the St. Dumas have protected my family. They have been a light in the dark world. Shall I tell you a secret?"

Sylvia let out a snarl from behind her gag; Jim glanced at her, but he turned to Galavan, both in anticipation and dread.

"Theodore Galavan is a _mask_ ," he said, grinning. "My name is Dumas, and my family built this city out of nothing. But we were betrayed, driven out— _erased_."

Jim couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed, saying, "So that's what this is all about? Revenge?"

"No. This is about atonement. The ground that Gotham is built on is poisoned by the wrongs done to my forefathers. I will change that."

"By killing nine random people? You're insane."

"I can understand why you think so," Galavan said, smiling broadly. "Monks, robes, blood ritual sacrifices, and chants about prophesies. It's a bit too old-fashioned in my opinion, but….belief itself. That's what matters, Detective. _Purpose_."

He said slowly, "And not all the victims are random."

Catching on, Jim said, "Son of Gotham."

"Good-bye James." Galavan said, still smiling. "I couldn't have done it without you."

He started to walk away; Jim started struggling against his restraints. Sylvia was already struggling, trying to free herself—if only just to pull the dreadful tasting old man sock out of her mouth. She was certain she'd puke up a lung when given the chance.

Galavan was just about to leave before he suddenly turned saying, "Ah what the hell! Cut him loose. And you know what…." Galavan approached with a fellow officer, stepping towards Sylvia. "I'll take pity on you this one last time, my dear."

He ripped the tape off her face, leaving one hell of a red imprint from the brusque removal. Immediately, Sylvia gagged, spitting the sock out, choking and coughing so much that Galavan stepped back in fear of being vomited on.

"You're a fucking prick." Sylvia coughed, glaring at him—tears had welled up in her eyes from coughing so much, her face so red that the tape's imprint was blending in with the rest of her.

"May be," he sighed. He patted her face, saying, "I just thought I'd let you scream to your heart's content."

Sylvia gave him a look with a mixture of both hatred and confusion. Scream for what, she wondered frantically.

The officer that approached Jim cut his zip ties, and Jim rubbed his wrists as the officer quickly stepped back.

"I'll give you a shot at the title," Galavan said happily. "I'm feeling pretty generous right now. Give it a shot, Jim. Save. Gotham."

Jim glanced at Sylvia, split between kicking Galavan's ass or saving his sister. It seemed less likely that he'd be able to get the ties off her in time for her to escape, so having the pleasure of kicking Galavan's ass was a close second better.

"Fucking beat his face in," Sylvia growled.

Well, that's all the encouragement Jim needed.

He and Galavan circled, like an old time western. The only things missing were the whistle, a tumbleweed blowing needlessly between them in the dry wind, and the sound of a lone crow. They'd have themselves a western stand off—cowboys excluded.

Jim came at Galavan. In seconds, Jim was thrown back, kicked in the face, and on the ground. Sylvia and Jim stared at Galavan for a split second, taken aback.

Galavan wasn't a common fighter—he was _trained_.

"Hit him!" Sylvia shouted.

It was like recess all over again. But this time, Jim wasn't fifteen years old, trying to beat down a teenager who tried hitting on his little sister. Instead, this had deadly consequences, and they both would meet an unhappy end if Jim didn't land Galavan on his back.

A punch here—Galavan deflected. A punch there, he dodged it. Then, in less than two minutes flat, Galavan had landed five blows, bent Jim's arm, and landed two kicks on Jim's knee and back, putting him down the ground. And Galavan barely broke a sweat.

"Kill him," said Galavan lazily, gesturing to Jim in the same manner. "Slowly."

"And her?" The officer that had escorted Sylvia now turned his attention on her.

"She's going to die…." Galavan drawled. "One way or another. I can't very well in good conscience tell _you_ how to do it, but…" He smirked dangerously at Sylvia, saying directly to her, "Terrible things happen to people in Gotham. Terrible, _unforgivable_ things."

Sylvia narrowed her eyes at him. Despite her fear, her quaking nerves, and her disgust and terror about what the officer in front of her was thinking of doing to her in the last few moments of her life, Sylvia dared not show any of it to Galavan.

The latter smiled one last time before he left. Just as he did, the two officers pulled out their batons and started beating Jim mercilessly—no holding back, no mercy.

"STOP IT!" Sylvia cried. "STOP!"

Sylvia bit back her plea when the officer staring her down like a piece of meat approached her, rubbing his hand over the crotch of his pants.

"Don't worry, sweetheart." He said with a toothy grin. "I'm going to be gentle."

"Just so you know," Sylvia said, still twisting her wrists against the zip tie restraints. "The last two people who tried to rape me died by _my_ hand."

"I remember them," said the officer, still offering that simpering grin. "The burglar that tried to rape you in Belmonte's cafe—and Maroni's men that had the pleasure of fingering ya. Yeah," His grin widened when she stared at him. "Yeah, I remember. I couldn't help but think 'god _damn_ , those sons of bitches are fucking lucky.' But I think I'll go a different route with you."

"How so?"

"Curious?" He said smugly. "I'm gonna put my cock in your mouth—"

"I'll bite it off like I did the other one," Sylvia promised.

"Then we'll have to go through the back end. That's all right. I like it better that way." The officer said smoothly, palming himself through his pants.

He moved behind her.

And she heard the zipper release, slowly inch down. He rubbed his hands over hers before slowly rubbing them down the front of her breasts, grabbing and fondling them before lowering to her hips.

"You're a real piece of ass," he snickered. "I always wondered how a freak like Penguin ever got so lucky. Some people get all the breaks…."

Two gun shots echoed—the two officers beating Jim to death went down with a grunt and a groan before two more gun shots fired them dead. Sylvia and the pervert behind her glanced up to see Gabe and Oswald advancing.

Oswald was already in a temper, hearing Galavan had been let go. But his glare became murderous when he saw the officer groping his wife from behind her, the man's pants already down to his ankles.

"Gabe!"

"I've got it, boss—"

Oswald grabbed Gabe's gun, cocked it, and aimed it at the officer, who was smart enough to pull his pants up and stand behind Sylvia—she was his human shield.

"Vee…" Jim groaned from his back—if he hadn't been there prior to the beating, Sylvia would not have recognized him, covered in his own blood and grime.

Sylvia winced when the man behind her pulled out a switchblade. What an uncommon thing for a police officer to carry, she thought. Then again, he worked for Galavan, didn't he?

"One step, Penguin—and she's dead!" The officer shouted.

He held Sylvia's neck with one hand; the knife was on her shoulder, settling there but ready to pierce her carotid at any given time.

"Boss…." Gabe said uneasily.

"Shut up." Oswald snapped.

Sylvia leaned forward, into the man's hand. The officer didn't know what she was doing—that was until she snapped her neck back, head-butting him in the face. The knife slipped, slicing her shoulder, but he'd stepped back, holding his nose.

In that second, Oswald pulled the trigger and the officer was motionless, falling to his feet, then on his head.

"Oh god, I think I'm gonna have a heart attack," said Gabe, holding his chest where his heart was located. "That was too—"

" _Get her_ , would you?" Oswald ordered harshly, glaring at Gabe. "Get over it." He turned his attention to Jim, getting to his level, interrogating him on Galavan's whereabouts—not that Jim could express anything.

The man was barely conscious.

Gabe, on the other hand, quickly stepped past them and stopped to pick up the fallen knife before using it to cut Sylvia's restraints. She let out a sigh of relief, rubbing her wrists where the ties had cut into her skin. Gabe ripped the officer's jacket, and used a piece to dab at the cut on her shoulder.

"I'm fine, I'm fine—Gabriel, I'm _fine_ ," Sylvia insisted, smiling though when he was persistent.

Oswald was on his own temper ride shouting at Jim, "WHERE'S GALAVAN! Jim! Where is he!" And then he punched Jim in the face, then bitch slapped him after.

"Oswald!" Sylvia called, running to him. "Stop that—he doesn't know!"

"Where is he?" Oswald questioned murderously. "I'm going to _kill_ him."

"He's gone."

Oswald got to his feet: "What do you mean 'he's gone'?"

"He _left_ ," Sylvia emphasized sarcastically. "He told the officers to kill us—and he fucking drove away. And beating up my brother—well, beating him up _more—_ isn't going to change that."

Jim was motionless.

Sylvia glared at Oswald: "Oh my god, did you _kill_ him?"

"I didn't," he said breathlessly, gesturing down at Jim. "He's out cold."

"Well, whose fucking fault is that?"

Oswald rolled his eyes, and turned to Gabe: "Get him up. We'll bring him to Ed's place."

Gabe took a squat and picked Jim up, throwing him over his shoulder like a burlap sack of flour.

"He's pretty heavy," he complained as they piled into Gabe's vehicle. He said sweetly to Sylvia, "I'd rather pick you up and carry _you_ around."

"That's sweet," Sylvia commented, grinning broadly, getting into the driver's seat.

Oswald sat on the passenger side; Gabe sat behind him; Jim was….well, he was lying in the floor board, his arm on the seat.

"Would you two stop talking?" Oswald said irritably, looking at Sylvia. "And just drive the car?"

"A 'please' would be nice," Sylvia retorted.

"Please drive the fucking car."

Sylvia rolled her eyes, saying, "Your bedside manner needs work, Oz."

Without another word, she put the car in 'drive' and started doing as he asked. On the way to Ed's apartment, Oswald glanced at her—his irritation diminished slightly, replacing it with a certain amount of concern.

"Are you all right?" He asked.

"I've been better," said Sylvia, shrugging.

"When we get to the apartment, I want to look at you."

"It's barely a scratch." She said, referring to the cut on her shoulder.

"That's obvious."

"What else are you talking about?"

"Just….in general."

Sylvia smirked at him saying, "Darling, are you worried I've been tainted?"

"No!" Oswald said quickly, and suddenly insulted. "Why on earth would you think—No, I'm just…concerned."

Sylvia grinned, looking at him before she turned her attention to the traffic. Oswald cleared his throat, looking out the other window, hoping the flushed red on his cheeks would disappear before they arrived at the apartment.

When they did, Ed opened the door. Only quickly surprised to see that Gabe and Sylvia carried in bruised and banged up Jim Gordon before laying him on Ed's bed without a single word. Ed didn't offer any word of reproach. Oswald closed the door, glancing at Ed, who turned to him expectantly.

"Do I even want to know?" Ed said.

"No." Sylvia, Gabe, and Oswald answered simultaneously.

Ed nodded, saying, "Okie dokie. Does anyone want a drink?"

"I do." Gabe said immediately, holding his hand. "Got any beer?"

"Beer, no. I have wine—"

"That'll work."

"Al-righty then."

Ed took down three glasses, offering one to Sylvia, Oswald, and Gabe, who took it appreciatively. All the while, Oswald glanced uncertainly at Sylvia, who only returned it with an understanding expression.

It wasn't the first time they'd encountered this dilemma—Sylvia had been sexually assaulted for the third time since she and Oswald had been together, and the precedence (although disgusting) wasn't unnoticed by either of them. In each circumstance, Oswald was gone—one way or another. It never happened when he was around, but when he was gone, and unable to protect her, it always happened.

One way or another, another man wanted Sylvia. And somehow, they found a way to get to her.

This time, Oswald was certain that had Gabe not been tracking Galavan's movements, they might have been too late.

Sylvia drank a few gulps from her glass, and placed it in front of her. Between entering the apartment, and drinking wine, Ed had moved from offering refills to placing a sewing kit between he and Sylvia, bandaging the cut and sterilizing it.

Oswald had also noticed something else.

She and Ed, who had regularly talked, were stunningly silent. Maybe it was because Ed had to concentrate; the man could stitch a sweater in a matter of minutes, but he needed concentration to sterilize a cut? Maybe it was the entire situation itself—an injured, beaten up cop in his bed, Sylvia arriving with fresh cuts, and Oswald in his own catatonic state—that kept everyone's lips shut.

Sensing the tension, and not one for prolonged exposure to heavy situations, Sylvia smiled.

"What's funny?" asked Ed.

"I just thought of a joke."

A sigh of relief from Gabe who asked, "What's the joke?"

Sylvia grinned: "A ham sandwich walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender says 'sorry, we don't serve food here'."

Gabe gave a royal chuckle while Oswald and Ed glanced at each other—more or less amused, but not finding the joke as funny as Gabe did. But it certainly extracted the tension.

Ed gathered his first aid kit and smiled at Sylvia, saying, "Finished."

"Thanks, Ed."

"Anytime." Ed returned, grinning. He left shortly to put up the first aid kit in the bathroom.

Gabe excused himself, saying he needed to keep a look out; and he quickly exited the apartment, waving good-bye. Sylvia waved back, then looked at Oswald, who'd been gazing at her with a muddled expression.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"Nothing."

"You know better than to tell me that. I can see it in your eyes." Sylvia said gently.

Oswald took her hands in his, noticing the red welts along her wrists. He said nothing. Not at first. His main attention—and perhaps his only distraction—was gently massaging her wrists in his lap. Sylvia noticed it, knowing he wanted to say something about what happened.

"It's not your fault." Sylvia told him.

"It never is with you, is it?" Oswald muttered, his eyes still on her wrists.

"Well, it's not."

"Pigeon…."

"Hmm?"

"Do you ever get tired of this?" Oswald asked.

"No. I always enjoy your aftercare."

Oswald blinked, looking from her hands to her eyes, and saw that she was grinning broadly at him. It was a simple tease, and he couldn't help but allow his own smile to tug at the corner of his mouth.

"You know what I mean." Oswald told her.

"I do know what you mean." Sylvia said. "My life is consistently at risk. But if it makes any difference, it's never _not_ been in danger. I grew up with a lawyer for a father, and I have a detective for a brother—well, according to the court and judge's eyes….and depending on Galavan's testimony—a _felon_ for a brother. So my life has never _not_ been in danger."

"You've been assaulted more times than—" Oswald began but Sylvia removed her hand from his and placed a finger over his lips, shushing him.

He looked at her reproachfully, but she smiled.

"It happens to the best of us." Sylvia uttered lovingly. "The burglar, Mack, the officer—they're the people to blame. You, darling, are _not_ responsible."

"It doesn't lessen the degree that you've suffered." Oswald countered.

"Well, all three of them are dead—either by your hand or mine. I think that's a fair trade off." Sylvia said, winking at him.

Oswald looked at her with dark pools of adoration in his eyes.

"What did I ever do to deserve you?" He asked. "How do you stay when you—"

"Because I know you're the one," Sylvia said, cutting him off. "Before marriage, before the engagement, before we started dating—I knew."

"How?" Oswald said seriously.

Sylvia leaned in, kissed his cheek, and said, "There was only room enough for one person under your umbrella, and you chose to walk in the rain."


	49. House, Wife, Picket Fence

Chapter Forty-Nine: House, Wife, Picket Fence

* * *

Sylvia sat on the edge of Ed's bed which now paid homage to a third guest by the name of Detective Gordon. Sylvia placed a cold wet washcloth on Jim's forehead. Whether it was the singing duo of Edward and Oswald that had stirred the detective to consciousness or the sudden cold wet rag on his skin, Jim awoke abruptly, sitting up straight, knocking Sylvia's hand out of the way.

"Well, hello, sunshine," Sylvia said, grinning broadly at him.

Jim glanced at her, rubbing his temples, then looked past her, seeing Oswald and Edward together by the piano. Hearing Sylvia's greeting, Oswald and Ed turned their heads and both grinned with satisfaction.

"Well, well! Awake at last!" Oswald exclaimed happily, walking towards Jim. He put his hands in his pockets casually, saying, "How are you feeling?"

"Not so good," Jim answered hoarsely, turning his body horizontally, so his shoes touched the wooden floor. "Nygma?"

"Hi!" Ed said, leaning back.

"Long story," said Oswald, shrugging modestly. "He's a friend."

"'Friend'," repeated Jim suspiciously, gingerly touching the back of his head where Galavan had kicked him.

"You're welcome, by the way. No thanks needed, saving your life and all."

"Thanks. I guess."

"No, really." Oswald said, leaning forward with a twinkle in his eye. "No favors among family."

That made Jim grimace a little. It was the smallest reminder that whether he liked it or not, they were brothers—even if only by marriage. It was only at the mention of family that Jim swiftly glanced to his left to see Sylvia, still seated beside him.

"You got beat pretty bad," Oswald continued casually. "That Galavan is a _pistol_ , isn't he?"

"Yeah," Jim agreed sardonically, rubbing his jaw—yet another place that the former mayor had really got him. "He is."

As he said so, he glanced a peek at the exit behind him and started heading that way. Sylvia looked at Oswald incredulously, but the latter seemed more or less inclined to see him try to head out that door.

"Oh, you're more than welcome to go, Jim," Oswald said coolly. " _Desperate_ fugitive from the law, though you may be."

"Fugitive?" Jim repeated as though he'd never heard the word before. He looked at Sylvia for clarification.

"Galavan," said Sylvia as she stood to her feet and walked into the kitchen; both Oswald and Jim followed her liquid movements with a gaze—Oswald's, lovingly; Jim's, steadily growing darker. "After you hit him in the courtroom, the media sunk their teeth into it—said you tried to kill him. The two officers that were found at the scene of your escape were shot to death" (Sylvia glared ironically at Oswald, who shrugged innocently) "and witnesses say you fled the scene with Penguin. There's a warrant on your head, big brother."

"I didn't do anything," Jim said, walking past Oswald and standing in front of Sylvia leeringly.

"As is the case with you all the time," She returned calmly, looking up at him with a squared jaw. "However, that's not the way Captain Barnes will view it. You step out that _door_ " (She pointed at the exit) "you're behind bars."

"How did this happen?"

"How do _you_ think it happened?" Sylvia questioned, crossing her arms. "It's the 'he said', 'she said' bit. You've interrogated criminals before—you should know how this works better than anyone."

"I've gotta talk to Barnes—" Jim began, turning on his heel to start towards the door.

Sylvia caught his arm, pulling him back, saying: "Would you think for a moment, James? _Think_!"

Ed sat in the background, at his piano while still watching the scene before them. They certainly were an odd bunch, not the type you'd expect to all be sitting in a single room together. A notorious killer by the name of Penguin; his doting wife, Sylvia, whose club owner detail kept her own murders swept under the carpet; the illustrious Detective James Gordon who was out to get every two-bit criminal he could find and was now being framed for trumped up charges; and there was Ed, who had murdered his own girlfriend...an odd bunch indeed.

"Fascinating," Ed thought aloud, smirking at his own amusement.

"Jim," Oswald began calmly. "Think of this. Sit and consider the options. You and I share a bond in Theo Galavan. A passion, if you will. If there ever was a time for us to work together…Now is that time."

Jim looked at Oswald for the longest moment, deeply considering his options—which were few to begin with. He glanced at Sylvia who was just waiting for him to argue; she loved a good argument, didn't she? As though to prove that he was a wanted criminal, Sylvia strode past him to her purse that sat on the dining table, rummaged through it before grabbing the flyer and thrusting it into Jim's hands.

He looked down at it, staring at his own mug shot.

"'Armed and Dangerous'?" Jim read aloud, full of disbelief. Suddenly, he asked, "Where's Lee?"

"Lee is where Lee normally is—at work," answered Sylvia.

"Has she been interrogated on my behalf?"

"She's been interrogated alright," she returned. "Barnes asked her if she knew where you were."

"What did she say?"

"She said she didn't know."

"How do _you_ know that?"

"Because she called _me_ ," Sylvia said, holding her phone up indicatively.

"Why would she call you?"

"Because I told her to. I always give your girlfriends my number in any case they need to talk some smack about you," Sylvia said, smirking at him. "Barbara used to call me _all. The. Time._ "

Jim grimaced at her before he looked at Oswald with finality.

"I know that look," Oswald said happily, pointing at him. "You want to take down Galavan just as badly as I do."

Jim didn't verbally agree; neither Sylvia nor Oswald expected that much out of him. But the look of resignation on his face was enough to show them which side he was on now.

"Did Barnes talk to _you_?" Jim questioned, striding towards Sylvia.

"No."

"Why not?"

"He knows I wouldn't give you up," said Sylvia, rolling her eyes.

"But Lee would?"

"That's between you, Barnes, and Lee," she said, raising her hands defensively. "I've proven myself over these past couple of years that there are only two people I would die before I gave up either of them: You, and Oz. And if you know anyone who thinks otherwise, I invite you to bring me their head."

No one challenged her.

Jim tossed the wanted flyer onto the counter cynically. He didn't want to believe that the GCPD would suddenly think he was a criminal—so easily, so quickly to jump to that conclusion. But then again—this was Gotham.

* * *

Ed was at work. This was a normality, to keep appearances. Not that Ed would be doing anything in the least where firearms were concerned. He wasn't _quite_ up to that point, although he did lament that he'd be missing out on all of the fun.

Meanwhile, Oswald called in his men while Sylvia welcomed Dagger and Chilly into the apartment. Both men were at least two feet taller than her and when they hugged her simultaneously, Sylvia could hardly be seen. Dagger was the burliest of the two, more bruiser quality while Chilly appeared hungrier—both for food and wealth. As the men told Sylvia how the businesses were going, Jim stood, watching his sister from the side lines.

His arms were crossed, his jaw clenched sternly. It was hard to imagine that his sister could have been caught up in all of this Underworld business, but watching her inform Dagger and Chilly about the location where of entry points were and how to take down these greatly trained monks inside the penthouse was almost enough to make Jim want to kick his sister in the head.

"She's quite the leader, isn't she?"

Jim sent Oswald a hard gaze as Oswald chose to stand beside him, hands in his pockets again. Confident, as ever.

"Yeah," Jim grumbled.

"You know, Jim," said Oswald quietly. "She has talked highly about you, being a great detective. Would it be so difficult for you to return the favor and admit that she's good at what she does?"

"She robs banks, mugs people, and countless other crimes—some of which I'm glad I don't know anything about," Jim said sternly. "And you want me to be proud of that?"

"Proud of _her_."

"She works in the Underworld. I can't be proud of her for that. But I've never said she's not good at your kind of work. She's always had a knack for not upholding the law," said Jim darkly. "It's something we're constantly fighting about."

" _No_ argument there," Oswald said, raising his eyebrows and suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

"You're only enabling her."

"I'd like to think I'm being supportive."

Jim looked at Oswald pointedly; Oswald was perceptive of Jim's gruff side, not a stranger to the glare Jim would reserve especially for him ever since he found out that the man before him was dating his sister. This glare, on the other hand, looked less aggravated.

"Jim, I can understand your reservations about us," Oswald said cautiously. "But while she has been with me, she's never been—"

"She's been in danger," Jim cut him off. "She's gotten hurt more than I count."

"It comes with the territory."

"It comes with being with someone like you."

"I should say the same thing," Oswald returned coolly, looking at him pointedly. He took a step towards Jim, who narrowed his eyes at him. "You know, we've never officially had a conversation about what all Sylvia has been through since our wedding ceremony, but I'd like to point out something to you, if I may. In no time since your sister and I have been together has she ever had her heart broken by yours truly. However, you" (Oswald pointed to Jim just to emphasize the point) "have broken her heart on _countless_ occasions."

Jim said darkly, "It comes with the territory."

"Does it?" Oswald responded. It was his turn to frown. "You care for her just as I do, James. Between us, we share a bond—"

"Yeah, you mentioned Galavan several times."

"I'm not just talking about him."

Jim and Oswald watched Sylvia talk animatedly to both her men, and Gabe, who was obviously charmed by her war-leader skills. The conversation about severing heads went off on a tangent and all parties of the conference had described their favorite way to make a tasty blueberry cobbler.

Jim turned to Oswald pointedly, saying, "I've accepted the fact that she will never leave you."

"And I've long ago accepted the fact that she will consistently come to your aid." Oswald said cynically. "Personally, I think there have been more than a few occasions where I have insisted that she would just allow you to crash and burn—maybe, then, you would be able to open your eyes and see that you need her more than she needs you."

Jim kept his tone somewhat steady, although the ice could still be heard: "I couldn't help but think the same thing about you, Cobblepot."

Sylvia now was proposing to the gentlemen that they would eventually have to participate in a cobbler bake-off. Her voice seemed to bring both Oswald and Jim back to the surface of their own mutual dissatisfaction towards their treatment of Sylvia, and both men regarded one another with calm and civility.

"After all this time, you still don't approve?" Oswald asked nonchalantly.

Jim glanced at him, saying coolly, "Oswald, I'll level with you. If there was any other person—anyone else—that she could have chosen and still live a better life, I would have wanted her to choose that person. However," (Oswald looked at him curiously) "I can't imagine there would be anyone else that treats her half as well as you do, so...I suppose I can't disapprove either."

Oswald beamed, saying, "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Sylvia left the three men to debate their 'secret' ingredient to put into the best cobbler and walked towards Jim and Oswald.

"They're all on board," said Sylvia. She noticed the tension, and glanced between them precariously: "Is…. everything all right?"

"Peachy," Oswald answered, a smile genuinely reaching his eyes. "So, what's the verdict?"

Sylvia said, "Dagger's going to the armory to get a few more guns, and then we should be ready to go."

"His _name_ is Dagger?" Jim questioned, pointing his own eyes in the direction of said man.

"Of course not. That's his nickname," said Sylvia.

"What's his real name?"

"You don't need to know, Officer."

Jim grinned at her, saying, "Are you always this protective of your employees?"

"As long as they're just as protective of me—yes. We keep each other safe." Sylvia returned coolly. "Can you say the same thing about your own people?"

Jim didn't give her a response, but they both knew how fickle the police officers in his department could be. One fickle friend could lead to a single-handed catastrophe. And that didn't even level with _Gotham's_ standards for disasters.

* * *

While they waited for the rest of the cavalry to arrive, Jim, Sylvia, Gabe, and Oswald sat around in the living room area, which consisted of a sunk-in love seat and an armchair. Jim sat with a stiff back on the couch beside Gabe who was settled comfortably at the end with his feet on the coffee table. Oswald sat in the armchair, while Sylvia sat on the floor; her back was leaned against the arm chair between Oswald's legs.

Oswald was preoccupied, playing with Sylvia's hair, gathering it into twists. Sylvia hummed a low song while flipping through a magazine. She slowly drank from a glass of wine, looking through the articles about celebrities dating other celebrities, and whose baby was not the father's, that sort of thing.

After a moment, Jim cleared his throat, making Sylvia and Oswald look up at him curiously.

"So..." Jim began. "How...uh...How long until the rest of the back-up comes?"

"Five or ten minutes, tops," Sylvia answered, her eyes flickering back to the magazine.

"Are all of your people coming?"

"Not all of them. I left the girls at the club."

"They're not coming?"

"No. I trust them with administrative duties before I trust them with a gun," Sylvia answered calmly. "Delilah knows how to shoot a BB gun at least—Brittany…. phew…. forget about _that_ one ever learning how to hit a bullseye."

Jim said curiously, "How do you find these people?"

"I don't. They find _me_." Sylvia answered.

"Why?"

"They know who I am, and how I operate. Some of them just want to get into show business. In case you haven't noticed, I have a certain _flair_ for song and dance," Sylvia said confidently. "I'm something of an icon these days."

Gabe chimed in, "Have you ever seen her dance? She's a thing of beauty."

"I've seen more than enough of my fair share," Jim grumbled.

Sylvia chuckled, "Don't let him get to you, Gabriel. He's just standoffish because he doesn't like seeing other people whistling at his sister."

"He's not the only one," Oswald muttered.

Sylvia leaned her head back, looking up at him: "I told you, sweetheart. It's only business. You know my heart always comes home to you."

"Well, as much as I treasure that, I prefer the _rest_ of you too." Oswald reassured slyly.

"You _do_ have the rest of me," She said, winking at him. "Mind and body. Heart and soul."

"Ugh," Jim muttered. "I'm going to step outside for some fresh air."

Sylvia smirked at Oswald, who returned the furtive smile as Jim moved and stepped out of the apartment.

"Oops. I think we made Detective Gordon uncomfortable." Sylvia uttered. "I better go after him."

She stood, but quickly moved forward to share a kiss with Oswald, who returned it eagerly. When it naturally broke, Sylvia caressed his cheek with a single stroke of her thumb then exited through the back door, standing alongside Jim, who glanced at her with a tad bit of annoyance.

"Did I manage to get under your skin?" Sylvia cooed, poking him playfully in the bicep.

Jim grimaced, saying, "You know what you did."

"Can't a wife dote on her own husband from time to time?"

"I'd rather you didn't do it in front of me."

"Oh please. It was a barely PG. If I wanted to get under your skin for _good_ , I would have sucked his dick in front of you." Sylvia said, tossing her hand to the side dismissively.

Jim made a sickening expression, turning a little green at the thought.

"I'd like to see you get a little handsy with Lee from time to time," Sylvia offered, smirking at him. "Women like being shown a little PDA."

"I'm not that type of man."

"Well, even _I_ could have told you _that_."

Jim glared at her and suddenly snapped, "What the hell do you want from me, Vee?"

Sylvia blinked, and lowered her arms, bearing no defense. She said apologetically, "I'm only teasing."

"It's _not_ teasing."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know what it is—you used to do this to me when we were kids," Jim said grumpily. "I'm sick of it."

"For your information, buddy, the only reason any of this came up was because Gabe mentioned I'm a good dancer. And, by the way, _I_ am," Sylvia reminded coolly.

"Yeah, you don't have to remind me. I've seen you on the catwalk, stripping—"

"I'm not even taking off my clothes!" Sylvia snapped. "And for your fucking information, if I decided to become a stripper, I'd be making more money than you or any of your cop friends—because I would be good at it— _just so we're clear_!" She prodded him in the chest with her fingernail, and Jim looked at her indignantly.

"Did you come out here to comfort or to argue with me?" He questioned.

"I'm not even sure anymore. To be honest, I just wanted to talk to you."

"We're not talking. We're arguing."

"Siblings argue."

"I doubt siblings argue this much."

"I'd say most siblings do," Sylvia debated. "What does it matter anyway?"

"I get tired of arguing with you."

"It's how we communicate. To be honest, I sometimes enjoy it."

Jim stared at her: "You _enjoy_ arguing with me?"

"Well, I think we have a good back-and-forth, you and me." Sylvia uttered, smirking at him. "Don't you think?"

Jim didn't respond. Instead, he looked at her for a long time before turning his head to briefly view their own shadows against the brick wall in front of them. They stood in an alley, so was the backyard view of Ed's apartment. There wasn't much to see at this point. The breeze brought in the smell of last night's rain; the clouds were slowly moving, full moon above; stars dotted the sky.

"Are you and Lee ever going to marry?" Sylvia asked.

Jim glanced at her, surprised: "Why do you ask that?" Then he said with a tone of worry, "Do you know something that I don't?"

"No. I don't know any more than you do—which is barely nothing." Sylvia said, grinning broadly. "But she's pretty much been there through thick and thin, and I like her. I think you should tie this one down before you lose her. Like Barbara."

"I didn't lose Barbara."

"No, you're right. She lost _herself_. Her parents were tyrants; the Ogre freed her, and she's the best candidate for Arkham. I figure her past few moments are a good indication of that," Sylvia said lightly. "Lee is a good woman; she seems pretty down-to-earth. A little too goody-goody for _my_ tastes, but aside from that: I think she's a good match for you."

Jim chuckled, "You're telling me you approve?"

"I'm saying that you could do a lot worse." Sylvia returned seriously. "She's a doctor. As many times as you get hurt, I figure having your own live-in doctor might make your top most wanted spouses list."

"I'm sure she'll be happy to hear that from you."

Sylvia shrugged, "My approval shouldn't matter. If you love her, then you should marry her."

"Do you believe that?"

"Look at me, Jim." Sylvia said softly. "Do you really think I would have married Oswald if your approval mattered to me? I mean, granted—you're my brother so your approval obviously _does_ matter to me, but that's not the end-all, be-all for marriage. Or for love."

He nodded, agreeing with that fact. Another moment passed as Jim crossed his arms over his chest. Sylvia leaned against the wet brick wall, looking up at the sky. It wasn't long before Sylvia reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Jim noticed and gave her a look.

"I didn't know you still smoke," Jim said curiously.

"Occasionally." Sylvia returned. "Every now and again, I get the urge. Haven't really had a craving..."

"Only when you're around me?"

"Don't flatter yourself. You don't cause half of my stress," said Sylvia, grinning at him. "But I figure now while I have some time, waiting for the back-up, I might just have one."

"Does Oswald know?"

"Of course, he knows. Why wouldn't he?"

"Seems like something you'd keep a secret."

"He and I haven't any secrets."

"Don't give me that," said Jim sardonically. "Every couple has secrets."

The smog of Gotham seemed to have faded so that all that could be seen in the clear night sky were stars. So many that it would take years to count them all. Sylvia reached into her other pocket to pull out a lighter and made a scathing noise, placing the cigarette between her index and middle finger. Jim smirked when Sylvia resigned to put the cigarette back in its little box, looking defeated when she couldn't find said lighter, but otherwise no less anxious than she had been prior to the conversation about her old habit.

"Do you and Lee have secrets?" Sylvia questioned, looking at him pointedly.

"What?"

"You said all couples have secrets."

"So?"

" _So_ ," Sylvia emphasized, holding a hand out to him encouragingly. "I'm given to believe you're not an exception."

Jim bit the inside of his cheek, like he'd just caught himself in a lie. But rather, it was Jim's reaction for when he realized he'd found himself in a sticky truth. He and Barbara once made the promise of having no secrets; even he and Lee agreed to tell one another everything. But Jim knew that this would never be a realistic expectation. Considering the hazard of his job, there would always be lies to be said, sometimes made up out of the blue. He looked at Sylvia, now, with a guilty smile.

"To answer your question," said Sylvia, obviously getting Jim off the hook. "Oswald and I don't have secrets. We may not always give each other the entirety of the situation, but where it counts: We are open and honest. As a well-oiled machine should be."

Skeptically, Jim replied, "You're telling me you know _everything_ there is to know about what he has in store for Gotham's future."

"I have an idea. And that's good enough for me."

"You believe Gotham should be his?"

"It's _already_ his." Sylvia replied coolly, leaning her back against the wall. "He is and should be King. He's worked harder for the empire than anyone else, and I doubt Gotham would be in any safer hands."

Jim rolled his eyes: "Why not say 'Gotham is yours'. Is there no 'ours'?"

"The 'ours' is implied. I never wanted to rule Gotham's underworld," Sylvia admitted.

"People are saying you're the Queen."

"Well, I am. I can and _do_ rule as Gotham's Underbelly's queen, mainly because I'm married to its builder." Sylvia told him.

"Why does it sound like you don't want that responsibility?"

"I didn't want it. I'm more comfortable working on the level ground than in a monarchy."

"Does Oswald know that?"

"He knows," said Sylvia. "I never wanted to rule anything or manage anything because I was certain I would not be good at it. I'm too scatter-brained, too opinionated—"

"—Too hotheaded—"

"Yes," Sylvia quickly agreed before Jim could continue. "And it's precisely those reasons why I felt that I could not make it anywhere. But love is a powerful thing. Oswald instilled in me a confidence that I never knew I had. He encouraged me to sing and dance—starting at his club—and look at what I have been able to accomplish."

Jim looked at her curiously. Sylvia said with a doting smile, "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him, James. And I owe my success to him. Tried to make it up to him several times. But all he wants from me is my unwavering loyalty and my trust."

Jim frowned.

Sylvia said softly, "And that's why there are no secrets between Oswald and me, James. We trust each other."

He seemed buried in his reverie, comparing her relationship with Oswald to that of his own with Lee. Whatever the results, they didn't seem too flattering. A moment passed before either of them spoke.

"What about children?" Sylvia asked curiously.

Jim startled, "What about them?"

"Do you want kids?"

Jim chuckled, "Are you having an existential crisis?"

"Well, shit, Jim—I'm not asking 'why are we here' and 'what's my purpose' kind of questions. It's a simple question. _Do_ you want children?" Sylvia asked plainly.

"That's not an easy answer."

"Isn't it?"

"Well, it's not. My job isn't safe. Even now, Lee isn't safe. And the money I make—"

"Jim, if you wait to have the money to have a kid, you'll never have children," Sylvia laughed. "Kids are inconvenient—no matter what financial cost."

"Well, do _you_ want children?" Jim asked.

Sylvia's laugh sobered: "My case is different."

"No, it's not. Your situation is pretty similar to mine."

"Sure."

"Sure what?"

"Sure, I want kids." Sylvia returned calmly. "I could imagine having a child. Son, daughter...hell, even twins."

"Twins don't run in the family."

"You never know. I could be the odd one out."

"Well, you're not wrong about that." Jim said, chuckling quietly to himself. He rubbed his arms as the wind picked up from a simple breeze to a chill. "If you were to have kids…what would you want?"

"A boy."

"Wow, no hesitation there!"

"Why hesitate?" Sylvia asked, shrugging. "What would _you_ want?"

Jim thought for a second. After, he said finally: "A girl."

"That would be nice. You could always call her 'Barbara'," chuckled Sylvia. "Maybe _that_ Barbara would turn out to be more stable."

"Vee—"

"You never know. She could be stable, smarter—for all you know, she could be a tough little cookie. One day, she'd end up fighting the criminals you've been trying to put away," Sylvia said with a sly smile. "That _would_ be your daughter—stubborn, but smart."

"You've thought a lot about this."

"About you having the house, the wife, and the picket fence?" Sylvia chuckled. "I don't think much on you having a family as much as _me_ having one."

"Have you and Cobblepot…. talked about this together?"

"A little." Sylvia said. "Having a child in this day and age is probably irresponsible at this point. But I'd like one. And he wouldn't mind having one too."

"If you don't mind me asking, _why_ haven't you had one yet?" Jim asked.

"Why haven't I gotten knocked up, you mean?"

"If you want to word it that crudely, sure."

"I have an IUD," Sylvia explained. "It's good for five years. I got it about the time I started working for Fish—didn't know what kind of stuff she'd have me do so I preferred to be more careful than careless."

"Sounds like a good idea."

"Jim."

"Hm?"

"Do you know what an IUD is?"

"Of course, I do!" Jim laughed, gesturing to her.

"Oh really. What is it?"

"Birth control…."

"Correct." Sylvia said, smirking. "You've impressed me."

"Well, for your information, Vee—we're not twelve anymore. I've known about that kind of thing longer than _you_ have."

"Yeah, because you _definitely_ needed it with that cheerleader chick." Sylvia uttered sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "She didn't give you the time of day, but you were _so_ sure you'd get into her knickers by summer."

Jim said calmly, "I'd have done it if you weren't butting your head into my business all the time."

Sylvia pushed Jim in the shoulder playfully, saying, "You _wanted_ me to tag along with you."

"If memory serves, I said you could come to the movies with us—not sit in _between_ us."

"Well, if it wasn't for me, you would have dated a twinkie," Sylvia said, "if memory 'serves'. She had a guy on the side, remember?"

"I do remember," He muttered resentfully.

"If only things were that difficult today." She chortled, rubbing her face tiredly.

"Yeah." Jim said, laughing a little. "It'd be a lot easier."

"No doubt."

A silent moment passed before either of them spoke.

"You do realize that you're a wanted man and you're pretty much standing in the open," Sylvia reminded.

"Got it." Jim said quickly, walking back inside.


	50. Going After Galavan

Chapter Fifty: Going After Galavan

* * *

 _Galavan was going to die tonight._

Those words had come with the feeling of both apprehension and relief. While she watched her and Oswald's men prepare for the event, Sylvia sat on the counter, clicking her knee-high boots together at the heel, listening to the sound with a comfort of knowing that Galavan's transgressions would gather full circle. She was prepared for the fight: she'd hold two guns in her hands, and if things got close and personal, she was ready to pull a K-bar from behind her back.

There was mixed conversation among Sylvia's and Oswald's men. Talk about ways to fillet a fish or a human being. Compared to the volume of her thoughts, their conversation was softer than a whisper. A body stood in front of her; she peered up to see Oswald there, holding a shotgun; the barrel balanced on the top of his right shoulder.

When their eyes met, it was as though Oswald could see through her. She was transparent to him.

"Are you okay?" Oswald asked gently.

"Fine." She answered. "A little nervous, but no more than usual."

Oswald placed the shotgun on the counter beside her. She was playing with her fingers, fidgeting at best. He noticed, taking her hands in his. His palms were warm; her fingers were like ice.

"Are you having second thoughts?" He asked.

"Of course not." Sylvia answered, smiling at him. "Galavan needs to die."

"I'm glad you think so."

"I'm just wondering what will happen when it's all said and done."

"The aftermath is of no consequence."

"To you, maybe," Sylvia said quietly.

Oswald looked at her curiously when she spoke. However, she had nothing to follow up on her passive comment. The laughter in the other room drew Oswald's attention briefly before he leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. She returned it, smiling at him genuinely when the kiss naturally broke.

"Are you going to kill him?" Sylvia asked.

"I planned on it."

"Another murder on the books," she said with a sly smile. "Your record just keeps expanding, doesn't it?"

"I'm detecting a jealous edge to your tone." Oswald said, grinning back at her.

"After everything that man has done to us—to you—I figure you're the better candidate to do the honors," Sylvia said lightly. "But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little jealous."

"I'd be more surprised if you weren't."

"Jim won't allow it, you know. He's thinking we're going in and finding Galavan so he can put him behind bars. He's tenacious as ever."

"I'm sure I could persuade him to our way of thinking."

"That, I have no doubt."

Oswald held her hands in his. He looked down at them, smiling to himself. He could think of many things to say to her, to put her at ease. But Sylvia wasn't looking for comfort. Her own comfort came with the idea of Galavan being put to death—be it by her hand or his. His reassurance did put her at ease, but he knew her too well. In order for her to be at her best and allow no one to stand in their way, Sylvia's anxiety was necessary. Her anxiety would push to the surface in the form of anger; and if there was anything Oswald could count on was the tenacity of her rage.

"I'm actually surprised Jim has come this far." Sylvia admitted quietly, glancing over to the corner where Jim was musing silently.

His thoughts were many miles away. Jim could hope for the best, expect the worst. The worst thing that could happen now was that Galavan somehow bested all of them in their endeavor and then managed to escape. The best thing to happen was seeing him put behind bars. Jim was certain that his way was the better way. Or maybe he'd fooled himself into thinking that's what Sylvia wanted too.

Jim approached Sylvia and Oswald in the kitchen, his eyes glancing at their close proximity before he turned to Sylvia, saying, "Where's the rest of your back-up?"

"They'll be here." Sylvia told him.

"That was twenty minutes ago."

"It's a twenty minute drive."

"Galavan could have—"

"Chill." Sylvia interrupted him coolly. "He's a _man_ , James. Not a demon—he's not going to randomly become the world's most powerful god in a single bound. If that was the case, I'm _sure_ he'd have done it by now. Twenty minutes isn't going to hurt anything or anyone."

There was a knock on the door.

Sylvia chuckled, "Who knows. Maybe that's him, right now. Maybe he's like Betelgeuse and we said his name too many times."

Oswald smirked at her when Jim rolled his eyes deeply to the back of his head. He couldn't take Sylvia's sarcastic remarks when he was on edge like this.

It was Gabe who answered the door. The person—above all people—that had come to their headquarters was someone Sylvia had least expected.

It was Lee.

Seeing her, Jim moved forward and away from Sylvia, who watched them with a little amusement. Seeing all of them bearing weapons of the like, Lee's eyes were wide as saucer plates.

"Lee." Jim said, taking her arm and shifting them towards the wall where they could speak more privately—but since it was such a small apartment, there was little privacy to be had.

Sylvia hopped off the counter, holding one Glock in her hand; the other was holstered in a sheath strapped to her right outer thigh. She walked into the main living room. Oswald followed her there.

"Jim, what are you _doing_?" Lee immediately started spawning questions. "Who are these people? _Sylvia_?"

Sylvia waved at her. Lee looked her over briefly: Sylvia wore all black: leggings, boots, v-neck blouse, and even had her hair tied up a pony tail.

Jim didn't give her much time to ask another question. Instead, he said, "I need to get you out of town. Penguin has a reliable man that can take you upstate. Things are going to be a little unsettled here for a while."

Lee turned from Sylvia to Jim, saying incredulously, " _Unsettled_?"

To help answer her question, Oswald said, "We're going to take down Galavan."

Well, obviously that was _not_ what Lee wanted to hear. Instead of being reassured, Lee's eyes widened as she looked at Jim with disbelief.

"Are you out of your _mind_?" Lee gasped.

"Ms. Thompkins, I can assure you—" Oswald began, but Jim lifted a hand to silence him politely.

Jim said, "He has to be stopped, Lee."

"By _you_?" Lee retorted. "And _these_ people?"

"He has to be stopped."

"You keep trying to kill yourself. Have I got you all wrong? Are you just crazy?"

"Of course not."

"You're on the run from the law," Lee emphasized. "You want to attack the mayor with the help of a depraved sociopath. That's not crazy?"

Oswald said pointedly, "I can hear you."

"Stop talking," Lee said, shutting him down. "Jim, don't do this. Let's get out of town together. I don't care what you've done already, or what you have to leave undone. Let's just go."

"I can't."

"Jim, please."

"I can't. I can't let Galavan win this way."

"I'm pregnant."

Oswald sighed deeply, looking up at the ceiling; Jim looked shocked, and Sylvia stared at Lee as though she'd just grown a second head from her left shoulder.

Honestly, if there had been any other time to tell him that he was the father, Lee had chosen one hell of a time to do so. It wasn't hard for Jim to realize what he had to do next. He turned to Sylvia, who smiled knowingly. After a while, they'd come to the consensus that in order to keep Lee and the unborn baby safe, Jim would leave with her. Out of town, out of Gotham.

Jim spoke with Oswald in low tones, arranging safe passage out of Gotham while Lee and Sylvia stood outside the apartment. Lee crossed her arms tightly around herself; the wind was chilling. The car was parked on the curb in front of them. For a moment, there was silence.

Lee looked at Sylvia for a long time. Sylvia took notice and met her gaze.

"I can hear the gears in your brain turning," She told her calmly. "What's on your mind?"

"What _isn't_ on my mind is more like it."

"You've been staring at me like that for the past half-hour."

"Staring at you like what?"

"That look of betrayal," Sylvia explained, pointing to Lee's face. "Just so you know, _I_ didn't persuade Jim to go after Galavan. He was going to do that with or without my help."

"So you're going after the mayor, still?"

"I blame him for a lot of the terrible things that have happened to me," Sylvia said, shrugging her shoulders. "Maybe he didn't cause them directly, but he's responsible for a great deal of my misery. He deserves to die."

"Galavan isn't your responsibility. And it's not Jim's."

"You think Jim would have done something he shouldn't have?" Sylvia asked.

"I think he might."

"What if I could ensure that he won't?" Sylvia offered. "Even if he came with us—what if I made sure he didn't do anything that would jeopardize your future—for you, for him, or for your baby?"

"You mean killing Galavan?" Lee said quietly, looking at her incredulously. "No one deserves to die more than he, but that's—"

Sylvia turned to her completely: "Lee, do you even know what I've done? I've killed people. I've tortured people. People who have done a lot less than what Galavan has done. He's hurt my family—he killed my mother-in-law; put trumped up charges against my kin, making him a fugitive, and he nearly had me killed. Not to mention he turned the entire city against my husband. Now if that doesn't warrant enough to put Galavan to death, I don't know what could."

"The legal system will take care of it," Lee said uncertainly.

"You're not talking to James," Sylvia reminded. "You're talking to _me_. And _I_ don't care about the legal system."

"And what if you die tonight?" She countered. "You're going to be an aunt. Does that mean nothing to you?"

"Of course it means something. But what's the point of raising a child when Galavan's the mayor?"

"You're impossible to talk to."

Sylvia grinned saying, "It's a family trait, I'm afraid."

At this, Lee smiled.

Jim and Oswald came out of the building. Both appeared resigned to the facts. Jim hugged Sylvia, who hugged him back. Sylvia gave Lee a side-hug—considering they'd engaged in something of a debate before the men had come out...still, Sylvia didn't want them to leave with bitter feelings between them.

"Good luck, old friend," Oswald said, shaking Jim's hand. "See you around."

"I hope not."

"We're family," said Oswald, grinning broadly at him. "The holidays are just around the corner. I'm sure we will bump into each other again."

"Good-bye, Penguin." Jim said, trying his best to ignore that last statement.

Oswald said to Lee, "Good-bye, Ms. Thompkins. Please don't think too badly of me. We are what we are." He held out his hand to her and she shook it gingerly.

"That's true. Good-bye, Mr. Cobblepot."

Oswald smiled at her, then he turned to leave, glancing at Sylvia, who said softly, "I'll be just a minute."

He kissed her briefly on the cheek before Gabe opened the door and they both walked back inside. Sylvia watched the door close and then turned to Jim and Lee, both of whom were watching her expectantly.

"Are you _sure_ you don't want to come?" Sylvia asked.

"Vee—"

"I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to _her_."

Lee gasped, "You know where I stand, Sylvia!"

"I know," Sylvia returned, grinning shamelessly. "I just wanted to see what you'd say." She added seriously, "For what it's worth, I'm happy you're safe and sound. You'll tell me when you find out if it's a boy or a girl?"

"I'll send a letter," Lee said, nodding.

"Don't be shy—send me a text. You have my number."

Lee swiftly got into the car, sitting in the passenger seat. Jim sat in the driver's, looking up at Sylvia, who grinned at him, still. Sylvia turned to leave, but just as she was about to head back inside, a car's tires screeched on the curb and shot towards the apartment, cutting onto the sidewalk before coming to an abrupt halt.

Harvey Bullock, Alfred Pennyworth and a man whose name Sylvia didn't know quickly got out of the car. Sylvia strode towards them. Recognizing them, Jim glanced at Lee warily, getting out to meet them.

"Alfred?" Jim greeted, surprised.

"Gordon, we have a problem." Alfred said breathlessly. "It's Galavan. He has Master Wayne."

Sylvia said incredulously, "What does he want with Bruce?"

Jim hissed, "Son of Gotham."

Sylvia and Alfred glanced at Jim, both saying, "Excuse me?"

"He kidnapped him." Alfred added. "When he didn't come home, I went to the penthouse."

Jim opened his mouth to ask a follow up question, but Harvey intervened, explaining that Bruce had been missing for twelve hours; shortly before that, Alfred had gotten into a scuffle with Tabitha, earning himself a stabbing in the abdomen, and he had hid in a trash dump before scrambling to get back to the city. He was apprehended by the GCPD, but was relinquished shortly after.

"You've had quite the day, haven't you?" Sylvia said, smirking at Alfred.

"Does _Barnes_ know about any of this?" Jim questioned.

"Barnes knows," said the unnamed man.

"Who are you?" Sylvia asked, looking at him.

"I might ask the same question." He returned politely.

Harvey made swift introductions: "Liv, this is Lucius Fox. Fox, this is Sylvia."

"Gordon's sister." Fox recalled, smiling broadly at her. He held out his hand; Sylvia shook it. "Quite the grip you have there, Miss Gordon."

Harvey leaned in, saying, "Actually, she's married."

"To whom?"

"To Penguin," Jim answered for Harvey.

Fox glanced between Jim and Sylvia saying, "I bet the holidays get pretty eventful for your family, doesn't it, Detective?"

"Could we skip the chatter, and get to work?" Alfred butted in, impatient. "Who knows what Galavan is intending to do with Bruce."

Jim nodded, saying, "Give me a second."

Sylvia watched Jim quickly bound back to the car, and speak to Lee who looked crestfallen. She seemed to already know what was going to happen before Jim talked to her. As a point, Sylvia turned to Fox, smiling at him.

"So, what do _you_ do?" She asked.

"I mainly work at Wayne Enterprises."

"Are you corrupted too?"

"I'd say I'm the least corruptible man in Wayne Enterprises." Fox returned honestly. "But I can certainly see why you would think so."

Sylvia saw Alfred looking a little more impatient, so she said, "Don't worry, Alfred. We'll find Bruce. How's the stabbing?"

"Doing better every hour," Alfred returned callously.

"How was fighting Tabitha?"

"Bit of a tasty fighter."

"Well, I'm glad you're impressed." Sylvia returned, rolling her eyes. "If you think she's good, maybe you and I can go for a round. You'd be amazed."

Alfred noticed her confidence levels were off the charts. As though forgetting his sole purpose for why he'd come to find Jim to begin with, he asked, "Got some training under your belt, have you?"

Sylvia smirked saying, "You have _no_ idea."

Alfred smiled a little at that. Jim returned to them, and Lee started driving away. Sylvia noticed the mixed expression on Jim's face, like he was thankful to be here but regretting every decision he'd made up to this point.

"She'll be fine." Sylvia said, patting his shoulder.

"Yeah? I find that hard to believe."

"Did she say she was leaving you?"

"No."

"Then she'll be fine," said Sylvia as she walked back into the apartment.

Alfred glanced at Jim curiously, asking, "Did that sister of yours ever serve in the military?"

"No. Why?"

"She has the confidence of an Officer."

"She was trained by Victor Zsasz in marksmanship, and by a former CIA agent in hand-to-hand combat," Jim answered, opening the door for the others to come. "If I had that kind of training, I'd be pretty confident too."

"Is she any good?" Alfred asked, stepping inside.

"I'm not sure, but I'm not too eager to find out personally." Jim admitted.


	51. Galavan Dies

Chapter Fifty-One: Galavan Dies

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you so much for all the reviews and messages!

* * *

Jim placed a pile of bullet proof vests on the table. Alfred, Harvey, Jim, Oswald, Gabe, Dagger, and Chilly put one over their heads. Sylvia picked one up, looking at Jim pointedly.

"Bullet proof vests," She commented, smirking at him. "What's next? An armored tank?"

"Couldn't sneak it past Barnes," Harvey uttered. "Otherwise, I would have gotten one. Just for you, Liv."

"How sweet." She returned, grinning. She put the vest over her head, tied the back of it behind her and then brushed the hair that had fallen out of her ponytail from her eyes.

"Everyone got a gun?" Jim asked. "Vee?"

"I have _two_." Sylvia returned. "If you're willing to give me a third, I'll take it."

"Honestly, I'd rather you not have _any_ weapons."

"Why? 'Fraid I might off the bastard before you get a chance to read Galavan his rights?" Sylvia asked sarcastically. "The fuckershould know it by now. The only one he doesn't know is his right to remain silent. Fucker talks too much."

"You talk your own fair share, Muffin." Alfred pointed out.

"Don't call me pet names, Alfred. We're not that close just yet." Sylvia said half-seriously. "You're more than welcome to call me 'Liv', seeing that you and I are starting to meet each other in the oddest of locations."

"Everybody set? Alright," said Jim, cocking his Glock. "Let's go."

"Wait a minute," said Harvey. "What's the plan?"

"Go in, get Galavan, put a gun in his mouth until he gives up Bruce."

Oswald glanced at Jim, saying, "Then after, I kill him slowly."

Sylvia smirked at him, but Jim debated: "No. I arrest him, put him behind bars."

Obviously, Oswald disagreed.

"What? Are you nuts? After everything he's done?" Oswald demanded.

"Gotham needs to know who he is."

"Gotham needs him _dead_!"

Jim let out a snarl, like he'd gone over this a countless time with his brother-in-law. If there was ever a dysfunctional family moment, this was definitely counted as one of them. A few more minutes passed where Oswald and Jim argued about what would be done with Galavan. Finally, knowing the only person who would be able to break this debacle, Jim turned to Sylvia.

"What do you propose we do?" Jim asked calmly.

Sylvia smiled saying, "You know exactly what I'm proposing. So, don't think I'm going to be your tie-breaker."

"Vee, you know what needs to happen."

"I _know_ what needs to happen. But that's not what is _going_ to happen." Sylvia said, clicking her nails on the wooden table she stood by. "Galavan _deserves_ to die. Seeing him rotting in prison was going to be a real treat before, but look what happened. It's what Oswald said—after everything he's done, Galavan _must_ die."

"Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit," Alfred said impatiently. "Can we first get in there and _then_ decide what to do?"

"Which begs the question," said Fox, drawing everyone's eyes to him. "How are you even going to get in? This is a plan designed to fail, unless—"

"I know a way in."

Sylvia looked at the window where a charming young lady sat in under the pane. Selina Kyle.

Confused, Fox looked at Harvey: "Who is she?"

"Fox, that's Cat. Cat, Fox."

"Hey, Mrs. P." Selina greeted Sylvia, smirking at her. "How have you been?"

"Great. You?"

"Meh."

"Cat," said Jim. " _Do_ you know a way into the penthouse?"

"Yeah. I know a way in, _Gordon_."

Jim glanced at Sylvia, saying, "Why does she seem happier to see you than she is me?"

"Well, you let her friend get fried." Sylvia reminded. "I, on the other hand, haven't done shit. Selina" (the young girl glanced at her expectantly) "What's your plan to get into that building?"

"I'll leave it as a surprise."

"I don't like surprises."

"It's a _good_ surprise." Selina said, wrinkling her nose playfully. "So, what do you say?"

"How do we know you've not already stitched us up," Alfred said, earning a glare from Selina. "You switch sides often enough. How do we know you're not going to turn on us?"

"How do I know you're not a Martian in a rubber suit?" Selina retorted.

Jim said, "I trust her."

Selina grinned like a Cheshire cat.

"Grab a vest." Jim told her.

She grabbed one, hoisted it over her head. Sylvia removed the Glock from the holster on her outer thigh and tossed it to Selina, who caught it last-minute. Jim glanced at the two of them, wondering just how many times they'd conversed in the past…. then again, Selina and Sylvia were so much alike, Jim would have thought it weird if they didn't get along.

"Are you telling me," said Fox slowly, "that there is no plan B due to the great possibility of failure, gentlemen...and ladies."

"Au Contraire, Mr. Fox," Oswald returned, looking at him with a sarcastic smile. "Failure is _not_ an option."

Fox glanced at Jim for a second opinion but Jim returned, "What _he_ said."

Fox recanted: "As you like. However, I'm not the best shot with a weapon. I'd be more of a hindrance than of help."

"I have a separate task for you, then." Jim offered, a hard smile on his face. "Would you do something for me?"

"Sure thing."

"Tell Barnes where we are."

"Excuse me?"

"In any case," Jim said, glancing cautiously at Sylvia, "things go South and there are people who outnumber us, we'll need all the back-up we can get. With my head on the chopping block, my location will bring Barnes and the rest of the GCPD swarming."

"Like a nest of wasps," Sylvia added, earning a hard smile from Harvey.

Fox said carefully, "So, you _want_ me to sell you out?"

"Precisely. Why, was I not clear?"

"No, you were very clear. I just wanted to make certain that we weren't misunderstanding one another." Fox replied, looking at Jim as though the officer might have lost one too many screws on the way to this point.

"Are we all set?" Sylvia asked, ignoring Fox. "I'm getting a little antsy over here."

"She's not the only one," Alfred chimed in.

"Fine. Let's go." Jim said, rallying everyone forward.

They all gathered outside, forming something of a chorus line as they marched towards the penthouse. The night sky had cleared of clouds completely, giving way to the many stars that dotted the blackness and the full moon. Sylvia glanced up at the clouds as she strode next to Harvey and Alfred.

"What exactly do you plan on doing once we get in there?" Harvey asked Sylvia, glancing at her precariously.

"Save Bruce," she said.

Alfred quirked an eyebrow up at her, surprised that she didn't have only murder on the brain, compared to her significant other.

"Really?" Alfred asked incredulously.

Sylvia smiled at him, saying, "Bruce is in trouble. For now, he's my only concern. Once we get him to safety, the rest will fall into place."

"And if we get there too late?" Harvey questioned.

"Then I'll be sure to cut off Galavan's head and plant it clear on a pike." Sylvia returned.

"Why do I get the feeling that's your intention as a whole?" Alfred asked.

"Well, you're not wrong." Sylvia said, smirking at him.

Harvey snickered, "I've missed you, Liv."

They stopped behind the penthouse where the garage door would lead them to the back, and up the stairwells. They'd be able to sneak into the building itself, and then once they came to the right floor, a surprise attack would put them in good odds of besting the mayor. Selina drifted inside where she knew the building was weakest.

"Mayors are almost as bad as the Commissioners," Harvey muttered breathlessly.

"Why are you panting already?" Sylvia asked. "Out of shape, huh?"

"Well, not all of us can be fit as a fiddle, _can we_ , Liv?"

"You need a physical trainer, Bullock."

"You need to pipe down."

Jim sighed, "Would you both be a little quieter?"

"The monks are _inside_ , James," Sylvia reminded. "None of them are out here. Stop being so paranoid."

"You make me nervous."

"I make _you_ nervous? That's rich."

"Are you arguing to get a rise out of me?" Jim questioned, glancing behind him to see Sylvia grinning mischievously at him.

"I admit, it's pretty fun."

Oswald muttered, "What's taking her so long?"

"Give her more time," said Jim.

"He's got a point, you know," Alfred said suspiciously. "She's been in there for a while."

"No faith," Sylvia said with a roll of her eyes.

At that moment, the door reeled upwards revealing a slightly out-of-breath Selina, who grinned at them.

"Come on in." She said, gesturing behind her.

Then she led the entire group on a manhunt. Starting through the parking lot, then up the stairs. The many, many, many flights of stairs. Sylvia took one look at the several flights before muttering "Fuck _this_ " and sheathed her gun in the holster on her thigh. She rubbed her hands together and then stepped onto the banister.

Everyone's mouth, including Selina, Oswald, and Alfred's, dropped a little when she started running up the banister _itself_ with perfect footing.

"Oh, _shit_ …." Gabe muttered, eyes wide.

"Go, go, go, go—" Jim insisted, running up the stairs to follow after his sister, who'd taken the lead.

"How the hell is she _doing_ that?" Harvey exclaimed, glancing up to see Sylvia running to the end of a banister; once she'd reached the end, she jumped from one end of the upper level banister to the other, climbing onto it, running the length before leaping over to the next level like before. "She's like a goddamn monkey!"

Up the stairs, Alfred was nearly out of breath; Harvey was wheezing. He leaned over the banister, looking up and crying, "Oh for Pete's sake!"

Selina practiced her breathing, keeping time with her running cadence. A stair climber itself was less tasking than the flights of steps themselves.

"I'm gonna be able to drink three packs of beer after this—and _still_ lose weight," Harvey wheezed, letting out a silent, painful laugh after.

In ascending order, it was Sylvia at the lead; Jim and Alfred were directly behind her on the steps. Oswald was leading in fourth while Gabe, Dagger, and Chilly were mentally slapping themselves for not joining in Sylvia's physical regimen when they had the chance and had been offered.

" **Death to the Son of Gotham. Death to the Son of Gotham. Death to the Son of Gotham. Death to the Son of Gotham**."

The chant rang loud as though voiced by the Tibetan men's chorus.

"What the hell is _that_?" Harvey groaned, looking up from where the noise was generating.

"I don't know," said Jim. "But it can't be good. Vee—which floor is it coming from!"

" _20_ _th_!" Sylvia shouted, leaping up the last banister. She nearly missed it, whimpering when her feet missed the ground and dangled. "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—shit..."

"Vee!"

"I'm fine!" Sylvia squeaked. "I'm fine! Just gotta get my bearing."

Her legs had been the foundation of her physical prowess; she was still working on her upper body strength. In a sense, she was more fit than the rest of the group, but her arms were starting to feel like jelly. She could not pull herself up.

"Vee!?"

" _I'm good_!" Sylvia said, looking through the banister rails. She was holding on for dear life. "Whenever you get the moment, though, some help would be great!"

Oswald glanced up to see Sylvia's boots dangling and he grumbled under his breath. He and Jim were the first to reach her; both of them dropped their guns on the floor, and held out their hand over the railing. Noticing they'd done the same thing, Oswald and Jim glanced curiously at one another but ignored the sudden movement in an effort to bring over their loved one. Sylvia held onto the rail, but extended her right hand; Jim took it quickly, grabbing her wrist and as he pulled her up, grunting in the process, Oswald grabbed her other hand.

Together, they pulled her up. Sylvia's feet found the floor with the rest of the group; and she smiled in relief.

"Are you alright?" Jim asked, while Oswald said, "Are you okay?"

Breathlessly, Sylvia said, "I'm good, thanks. Just lost my footing."

They both touched her, noticing that she was a little shaky but otherwise, she was fine. They picked up their respective weapons; once the rest of the group (aside from Harvey who had asked for a brief intermission) met them on the level, they advanced until the sound of chanting became almost unbearable.

Then, there was nothing.

Jim and Alfred exchanged worried glances. Sylvia withdrew her holstered Glock, cocked it, and then moved forward with the rest of them to the largest door they could find and then barged inside. Meeting them head on were at least twenty people, monks all dressed in brown robes—daggers raised.

Bruce Wayne, dressed in a white robe, was tied to a pillar. Like he would be burned at the stake for being a witch.

Jim, Alfred, and Selina on the left. Sylvia, Dagger, and Chilly in the middle. Oswald, Gabe, and two others belonging to him stood on the right.

All the guns were cocked.

The chief monk—or at least whom Sylvia could define as being the leader of the pack—took one look at all of them and shouted, "SACRILEGE!"

And that caused all the monks in the room to move as one unit, stepping forward, ready to die for their cause. If they wanted to die—so be it.

Bullets flew around the room. Shouting dulled to the point no one knew what the other person was saying. Twice, Alfred saved Jim, shooting two monks who had thought to sneak up on the officer while he dealt with two other monks. When they came too close into contact, guns were forgotten—Jim and Alfred, well versed in hand-to-hand combat, threw their punches, bringing the monks to them by the shoulders and kneeing them square in the face, knocking them out and serving them useless for the rest of the fight.

Sylvia drew attention from two monks; their daggers raised over their heads as they sprung to attack. Dagger and Chilly barreled forward, knocking Sylvia out of the way and putting six bullets into each robed attacker. Blood splattered their clothes. Sylvia picked herself up, thanking them quickly before she fired a shot into a monk that had tried sneaking up on Oswald—then killing another who had the drop on Jim.

One monk threw himself onto Jim, pushing the detective on his back. Jim growled, trying to throw him off. The monk's partner tackled, grabbing Jim's hands so the other could stab him. Seeing her brother's predicament, Sylvia leapt forward, grabbing the monk that straddled Jim and pulling him off.

"Get off my brother, you sicko!" Sylvia shouted, bringing him down onto the ground with her. She wrapped her legs around the monk's center, then twisted his head, snapping it, and killing him.

"All right! Woo!" Selina cheered.

Sylvia stood, grinning at her. Of the surviving cult, one monk started forward, grabbing Selina's arm. Selina grunted when her back hit the wall.

"Oh no you don't!" Alfred shouted. He shot the monk in the back.

Then Sylvia stabbed the Monk with his own dagger—just for principle.

"Fuck, how many of you are there!" Gabe exclaimed as ten more sprinted from behind closed doors and started forward with the same daggers.

Sylvia gasped when one of them grabbed her by the hair, pulling her ponytail out. He brought her down on her knees. Sylvia knelt down intentionally, only to take him by the waist and throw him over her head so now he lied on his back, eyes wide with shock.

" _Kill_ him!" Sylvia shouted.

Dagger cocked the gun, strode over to Sylvia, and with a single round, shot the man in the forehead.

One monk leapt forward—like a flying monkey—and with three others, they cornered Oswald and Gabe. Their guns clicked—the worst sound a gun could make. One monk flipped his dagger, the blade shining in the light. Sylvia sprinted forward, and with a high kick, Sylvia knocked him flat on his stomach where she straddled his backside, took hold of his head and then broke his neck.

The second monk received a justifiable kick between the legs, and Sylvia finished him off with stabbing both of his eyes with another Monk's dagger.

The last Monk blinked, regretting the decision to go after Penguin. Sylvia first hit him in the side of his kneecaps—hard enough that both fractured, sending him to the ground. Like the other one, Sylvia straddled his back side, and twisted his head so hard that the Monk's pained expression was facing directly at her.

Sylvia glanced up at Oswald who was breathless, watching her kill three men in less than two minutes.

"Holy shit." Gabe muttered, looking equally amazed and fearful at the same time.

And that was the end of the Monks. All of it happened in slow motion but the entirety of the fight had taken less than five minutes. Sylvia looked at Oswald imploringly, whispering, " _Go_."

Oswald nodded in understanding. He tilted his head sharply for Gabe to follow him; they'd take a different corridor to find Galavan. Dagger and Chilly received Sylvia's directing gaze; obediently, they followed Oswald out the door.

The bodies of robed figures were piled on the ground. All except for one. The Chief Monk who held a single dagger in his hand, the one that had slain his ancestors, stared angrily at the group.

"Drop the knife, old man. It's over." Jim said—that inner cop coming out.

"So, it would seem." Then the Monk let out a battle cry, took an impressive leap forward, then a gunshot rung in Sylvia's ears.

The monk fell down, dead.

Sylvia turned irritably to see Harvey holding up his gun, having fired off the round.

"Sorry, Partner. That was a _lot_ of stairs." Harvey said, smiling in spite of himself.

Alfred, Selina, and Jim hurried forward, tying off Bruce's restraints and allowing him to move about. Alfred held him close, thanking god they had come in time. Jim looked around the room, then to Sylvia.

"Where's Galavan?"

"How should I know." Sylvia said, shrugging.

"Where's Penguin?"

Sylvia smiled knowingly. Jim glared at her.

"I told you Galavan needs to be brought to trial!" Jim shouted.

"And he will— _if_ you get to him in time." Sylvia retaliated, cracking her knuckles together.

"You told Penguin to go on ahead, didn't you?"

"Well, you were going to stop Oswald from doing what needs to be done. I couldn't allow that."

"I told you the plan."

"You told me _your_ plan," Sylvia retorted, stepping forward challengingly. "Now, I'm telling you _mine_."

"Galavan could have more booby traps in this place." Jim said cautiously, although he was trying his hardest not to berate his sister further on her lack of judgement and morality. "Oswald might get himself into harm's way."

"Then we best get a move on." Sylvia said, moving past him. She shoved her shoulder against his, proving that their argument was not yet over.

Jim glanced at Alfred, who nodded for him to continue.

"Be leery of that one," Alfred warned.

"I know that better than anyone," Jim muttered tiredly, rubbing his head as he pushed on forward.

* * *

Jim grabbed Sylvia's arm when he caught up to her halfway down the hall.

He snarled, "You're making a big mistake, Vee."

"I think I'm pretty sure I'm not." Sylvia mused, smirking at him despite Jim's furious expression. "You want to know what I think? I think you _want_ Galavan dead—just as much as Oswald and me. When it comes down to it, you want to see him die too."

"I can't allow that to happen."

"Yeah, yeah, because you're a cop. I get it."

Jim grabbed Sylvia's shoulder and slammed her back into a wall. Sylvia grunted then glared at him.

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" Sylvia retorted furiously.

"Galavan is going to stand trial. Gotham needs to see what kind of a man he is."

"They can do the same thing at his funeral, you know."

"Are you so blinded by rage that you can't see what this means if you kill him?"

"Are you telling me you're going to risk it again? To see Galavan try to be put in jail again, and then him be released only a few months later—that's what's going to happen, James. And then what? Then you've got your son or daughter to look after, to make sure they're okay, to be sure that Galavan won't go after them too! Are you really going to put your family through all of that? To have yourself and Lee looking over your shoulders all the time like you and I have had to do our entire lives? _Think_ , James!"

"Vee—"

"Jim, stop arguing with me. You know you're not going to get anywhere. Plus, we still need to _catch_ Galavan if you want to see him face any justice—legal or not. So please, can we?"

Jim stepped back from her, allowing Sylvia to gain her footing. They walked down the corridor. Sylvia could practically hear Jim's frustration bubbling around him.

After a second, there was movement. Jim held out his hand, a motion for her to stop walking. She followed it. He glanced at her, knowing she would be hearing the same thing. Sylvia nodded, pointing towards the door down the hallway, third one on the left.

Jim motioned for her to lead on his right. She did as he instructed.

They burst through the door.

Galavan stood in the flesh, black suit, a bruise on his head from where he'd recently gotten into an altercation with a family member: Tabitha must have finally gotten sick of him.

As Jim entered the room, he cocked his gun and said, "Galavan!"

The man in question turned, startled, looking at him.

"You're under arrest." Jim said.

Galavan suddenly let out a sigh of relief, saying, "Oh god. You scared me, man. I thought you were going to shoot me."

"I'm not going to shoot you." Jim said.

" _I might._ " Sylvia said darkly.

Galavan looked warily at Sylvia, glancing between her and her brother as he took a seat on the couch. Seeing as she didn't act on her statement, Galavan felt more or less inclined not to engage her further. Jim grabbed a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and threw them to Galavan, instructing for him to cuff himself.

"Well," he said, "thank goodness for simple men of principle, who still believe in the system."

"Yeah, this time, you'll get the chair." Jim said, taking Galavan by the shoulder.

"Wanna make a bet?" He chuckled.

Sylvia frowned, but then smiled suddenly as Jim twisted Galavan around, pointing his gun at him. Looking like he might just do something he would later regret, but definitely would make Sylvia happy.

"Maybe you're right," Jim breathed, a dangerous glint in his eye.

"Steady now, Jim. I was only talking big." For once, he did look a little intimidated. "As they say, you know. You caught me 'fair and square'."

"I had you like that the last time, didn't I? But you turned it around."

"Yeah," said Sylvia. "And don't forget he tried to _kill_ you...and me."

"I know how this could look—" began Galavan.

"Shut up. Don't talk to her." Jim ordered, glaring at him.

Sylvia and Galavan alike glanced at Jim, equally surprised.

"JIM!"

"Barnes," Sylvia uttered disappointedly.

"JIM! Back up! I got him! 'BACK UP', I SAID!" Barnes shouted, advancing forward with a fellow police officer.

Jim reluctantly did as he was told. Barnes ordered Galavan to get on his knees; the latter did as he was told. Then Barnes looked at Jim, gun pointed cautiously at him.

"Now," he said. "Now, I need you to toss over your weapon, and get on your knees."

"What?" Jim retorted.

"You're still a fugitive." Barnes said, saying the words as though they sounded odd coming from his mouth.

"I've done nothing wrong!" Jim countered.

"I want to believe that! So, we're going to do this by the book."

"By the book?" Sylvia piped. "How often has that gotten you guys _anywhere_."

"You get on your knees too." Barnes warned. "You've been aiding and abetting a known fugitive. _Two_ of them."

"I am _not_ getting on my knees."

"Sylvia, please. Don't make me—"

"—I'm not making you do anything—"

"—Sylvia, I'm warning you—"

"Vee, please, just do as he says!" Jim called from the ground.

"Or what!" Sylvia retorted, glaring at Barnes. "You're going to shoot me? Come on, then. Let's have it. Shoot me, Barnes—because I'm not getting on that fucking ground. Not with Galavan. And you _know_ what needs to happen with fucking scum like him. He will **never** see justice!"

"SYLVIA!" Barnes bellowed. "Get on the ground or I will have no choice than to treat you like a hostile—"

Some movement behind Barnes distracted him. Oswald appeared, grabbed a vase from its stand, and crashed it onto Barnes' head, knocking him out cold. Gabe came from his right side, shooting the fellow police officer into the shoulder, bringing him down. In an instant, Jim was on his feet, grabbing his gun, and pointing it at Gabe, who returned the aim.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Oswald said quickly. "Nobody shoot! We are all friends here!"

"The hell we are!" Jim growled.

"James!" Sylvia snapped.

"I apologize for _that_ ," said Oswald, gesturing to the out-cold body of the officer and Captain Barnes. "That might have been a little over-the-top but I can't stand it when people threaten Sylvia. Just brings out the worst in me, you know?"

Jim's fingers tightened around the gun. Sylvia smiled as she and Oswald exchanged loving glances. Then Oswald returned back to the business, eyes forward, directly meeting Jim's.

"What's done is done," said Oswald. "They're alive. So, that's something. Look forward, Jim. What now. I will _kill_ you to get to him if I have to!"

"Oz…" Sylvia said reproachfully.

Jim and Oswald were glaring at each other. But hearing her soft plea, Oswald decided to take another approach, holding out his hands in front of them as he stepped towards Jim with an attempt to persuade than to threaten.

"Forget that this man sicced Barbara Kean on you," Oswald said gently. "Forget that he nearly killed the mother of your child, your sister, _and_ you. Forget revenge. Think of the greater good. Think of _Gotham_. He has courts in his pocket, and billions of dollars at his command. Are you one-hundred percent sure that he won't beat this and walk free again? Are you _sure_ , Jim? Think of Gotham."

Sylvia glanced at Jim, wondering if he was listening to what Oswald was saying. The radio scattered interference, as an officer on the line said: "Captain, Bravo Team in the vicinity of the Penthouse."

Oswald added, "But think fast."

Jim sighed deeply, gun still out and aimed at Oswald. But his fingers loosened, his grip slacked. He glanced at Sylvia whose eyes flickered uneasily between him and her husband. For a moment, Jim was certain that he and the justice department would be able to put Galavan in jail for good. But that percentage of confidence was swaying.

He lowered his gun. It was at that moment when Galavan appeared apprehensive.

"Where do we take him?" Jim asked coldly.

"To the pier." Oswald answered. "No one is there at this time of night."

"Jim…." Galavan began.

"Shut up." Jim croaked, looking at him. "Vee..." (he looked at her.) "Get him. We move him now. The GCPD is on their way up."

"We can go back the same way we came." Sylvia offered.

Gabe muttered, "Too many stairs. It'll be hours before we get Galavan to the bottom."

"Not if we just push him off the first step and let gravity do the rest."

Jim and Oswald looked at Sylvia with considerate expressions, taking her spouted suggestion under advisement if all else failed.

"There's an elevator." Galavan offered.

"Wow." Sylvia sighed. " _Now_ you become helpful. See, if _this_ Galavan had made an appearance months ago, I wouldn't feel the need to rip your head off your shoulders."

"Colorful." He mumbled.

"Elevator isn't a bad idea, Liv." Gabe uttered.

"Fine then. Elevator, it is." Sylvia said, nodding.

She and Jim grabbed Galavan by the shoulders and shoved him forward. A man on his way to his own death sentence never moved too quickly, but surprisingly, Galavan moved at an average walking pace. He grunted when Sylvia pushed him forward into the elevator wall—making every movement as brutal as possible. Jim would have normally objected, but this time, he didn't say a word.

They drove to the pier, stepped onto the wet soil. Oswald opened the trunk where Galavan had been stashed. He grabbed the bat while Jim pulled the mayor out. Sylvia closed the trunk and sat on it, her feet slightly dangling above the ground.

"Jim, you'll live to regret this!" Galavan warned.

"I have many regrets," sighed Jim. "This won't reach the top of the list."

He forced Galavan on his knees. Oswald looked at him, ready to beat him within an inch of his life.

Jim looked at Sylvia, who sat gracefully on the back of the car, her eyes meeting his with little emotion.

"Do you want to watch this?" asked Jim.

"More than anything," she answered calmly.

"Storm's coming," said Galavan, looking up at the lightning-broken sky. "Shame. It's going to be a beautiful morning. Good-bye, Jim Gordon."

Oswald spoke: "This is for my mother."

And then he let it out. One hit after another, Oswald struck Galavan with the bat. The sound of the blunt object striking any part of Galavan was so satisfying, it made Sylvia grin from ear-to-ear.

 _Thud._ Scream. _Thud. Thud, thud, thud._ Galavan screamed harder.

Soon, the mayor was bloody, crying for mercy. Galavan looked at Jim: "Please, kill me. Please…."

"Enough!" Jim ordered, pushing Oswald away from him.

Jim looked at Galavan, pondering how to do it. The man on the ground was pleading for mercy, pleading in general, begging for the end. While Jim considered his options, weighing each as though allowing Galavan to live or die would be a regret in any form, Sylvia watched him carefully. Her hardened expression as she watched her husband beat the living hell out of Galavan softened, seeing the pained look on Jim's face.

With resolve, Sylvia stood, walking towards her brother.

"You can't kill him." Sylvia told him, her voice was soft and calm.

Jim and Oswald looked surprisingly at her.

"You've been telling me," said Jim quietly as he looked at the now-beaten and bloodied mayor, "that he has to die. That he _deserves_ to die. And now that I've come this far, so close to doing what you've always wanted me to do, you…. you want him to live?"

"I never said that." Sylvia returned, her voice was still soft and gentle. "He does deserve to die. But not by your hand. He deserves a lot—but he's not worth that."

Jim frowned: "You've wanted me to get this far, Vee. You were right."

"About?"

"I want him dead. I want to kill him. I want him...to suffer….as we have _all_ suffered by his hand," Jim said darkly. "I want him to suffer, to bleed, to get what he deserves. I know the system is corrupt. I know he won't get what should come to him if he goes to prison." He pulled out his gun, turned the safety off, and cocked it. He pointed it at Galavan. "It's men like him that make this city dirty."

"And what about you?" Sylvia questioned. "You're going to muddy up your reputation by giving him what _he_ wants?"

She stepped closer to Jim, her right hand over his, the hand that held the gun. Oswald watched her, like he was in a trance. Sylvia wasn't predictable; in these moments, he was certain she was deadly...deadlier than most people he knew.

Jim knew this too.

"Kill me..." Galavan groaned, shutting his eyes tightly. "Please."

"Don't give him what he wants." Sylvia whispered.

"What he wants is to die."

"By _your_ hand."

"I'd oblige." Jim croaked, glaring daggers at the man. His nostrils flared, his brain pulsed at the idea of ending this man's wretched life. "Who better to kill him than me?"

"You're better than this." Sylvia said quietly. "You're better than Galavan, better than _him_."

"If he's not going to—" Oswald began.

Sylvia glanced at her husband saying, "You're not going to kill him either."

Jim sighed, "And how do you suppose we do it then?"

"We'll do how we've always done things…. what you and I have always done as kids."

Jim blinked.

She said softly, "You and I have always been similar, but I've always said that there's been a difference between us. I've embraced my darkness long ago. You're still battling yours. Just as we were kids, I'd do what you couldn't…what you _shouldn't_."

"I thought you hated me for letting you do that."

"I hated you for telling on me after I did what you didn't want to do," said Sylvia calmly. "Just like now. You can't kill Galavan. It would eat you alive. It'd change you."

"I don't care if it changes me."

"But _I_ do." Sylvia returned, her voice hardening. " _I_ care."

"Vee..."

"Give me the gun." Sylvia said.

"Sylvia…."

"Jim! Give me...your…. gun." She said more sternly.

Jim sighed, giving it to her.

Sylvia approached Galavan, looking down at him.

"You've put my family through Hell," Sylvia uttered hatefully. "Now, I'm going to make certain that you get to suffer just a little bit more before I send you there."

Galavan looked up at her, eyes wide.

Sylvia shot his kneecap. Galavan screamed.

"That's for my mother-in-law." Sylvia said. A shot to the second knee cap, followed by a scream. "That's for my kiddos." A shot to the shoulder. "That's for my husband." A shot to the other shoulder—the screaming nearly died inside his throat. "That's for my brother."

Sylvia knelt down and placed the gun against Galavan's temple.

"And this is for me." Sylvia whispered.

A bullet through the head.

She slowly stood up. Turned around.

Oswald and Jim stared at her. Oswald looked as though he had fallen in love a third or fourth time, although he also seemed a bit intimidated by Sylvia's sadistic display while Jim stared at Sylvia like she was an apparition.

"If people find out you killed the mayor," said Jim softly. "You'll get the chair."

"Are you going to tattle on me?" Sylvia asked, her voice was soft but hoarse.

"No." He said. He smiled a little: "What are siblings for."

Sylvia smiled, hugged him. She stepped over to Oswald who watched her as though she'd bathed in sunlight. Love written all over his face.

"Coming?" Sylvia asked.

Oswald kissed her cheek, saying, "I have one more thing to do."

"The umbrella?"

"Yes, Pigeon."

"You're a bit extra, aren't you?" Sylvia said, smirking at him. "Fine then. I'll meet you back at my apartment. We'll celebrate then, hm?"

Oswald nodded in agreement. She kissed him again, then started walking away. She chose to walk instead of driving back to town. She needed some time to herself. Oswald and Jim watched her leave.

"I've never seen her kill anyone before." Jim muttered.

Oswald said pointedly, "It's an enlightening experience."

Ignoring Oswald's fascination with her, Jim said seriously, "People will find out what happened to Galavan. Sylvia's tough, but she can't go to Black Gate."

"I feel the same way."

"Barnes is going to want to know what happened to the mayor." Jim uttered darkly. "He won't let it go. He'll question me. He'll question you."

"What are you trying to say, Jim?"

The detective turned to Oswald with a cool gaze, saying, "I guess I'm just wondering…. what're you going to tell Barnes if he asks."

Oswald looked at Jim, his gaze more challenging than ever, saying, "I'm prepared to do what's necessary to ensure that Sylvia doesn't have to see the inside of a cell."

"You mean 'cover for her'." Jim returned, knowing his meaning. "You would lie for her?"

Oswald smiled in spite of himself, as he returned, "Wouldn't _you_?"

The wind picked up a chill.

"I was wrong," Jim muttered.

Oswald glanced at him curiously, saying, "Excuse me?"

"You questioned me the other day. Asked me why I didn't approve of you and Sylvia. I've been in denial but…. she loves you." Jim said, torqueing his jaw as though speaking this truth was causing him physical discomfort. "And clearly, you love _her_. I guess what I'm trying to say is that…. you and Sylvia are fine by my book."

Oswald let out a chuckle, "You're giving us your blessing?"

"I'll give you more than that."

Jim held out his hand. Oswald took the hand, shaking it.

"That means a lot to me. Thank you." Oswald returned.

They both looked in the direction where Sylvia had walked away.

"It _is_ going to be a beautiful morning," Jim said, inhaling deeply then exhaling slowly, looking up at the night sky.

"Yes, it is." Oswald said, smiling.


End file.
